


Amis from A to Z

by Sunfreckle



Series: Modern Means Less Miserable [1]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2018-07-02
Packaged: 2019-02-09 17:40:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 18,943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12893304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sunfreckle/pseuds/Sunfreckle
Summary: A collection of fluff one-shot ficlets about the Amis first uploaded to my tumblr. Mostly focussed on friendship.They all fit into my "Modern Means Less Miserable" modern au, but can be read on their own.I will do my best to order them chronologically, but you'll have to forgive me if they are a bit out of place.





	1. Believe in Blanket Forts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire being converted (indoctrinated) to the happier things in life by Joly and Bossuet.

Bossuet chains his bike to the fence with three locks. He really likes this one, he’d hate to lose it. He trots up the stairs, whistling between his teeth, but when he reaches Joly’s floor he stops. There is a boy standing in the gallery. His back is turned to Bossuet but he seems to be staring at the closed front door. It’s covered in random stickers, a staple of student housing architecture.

“Excuse me,” Bossuet asks. “Are you lost?”

The boy turns around. Actually, he doesn’t look that much younger than Bossuet. Hell, maybe he’s older. His face says twenty, the shadows under his eyes say forty.

“We are all lost,” he replies, his voice level. “Lost in the empty space of existence.”

Okay, that’s different. Bossuet gives him a bemused smile.

“No, I’m not lost,” the other replies. “I live here.”

Bossuet takes in the messy hair and the green-checked shirt and his face lights up. “You’re Grantaire!”

Grantaire raises his eyebrows. “Okay that’s creepy, can you tell me my purpose in life too?”

“I’m Joly,” Bossuet says, extending his hand. He shakes his head. “I mean. I’m Joly’s friend. Bossuet.”

“I was going to say,” Grantaire says, shaking his hand with a lopsided grin. “There can’t be two Joly’s. I’m surprised there’s even one.”

Bossuet doesn’t know what he means by that, but he gives Grantaire a friendly grin. “Joly told me you made a great first impression.”

“On him, apparently, yeah,” Grantaire grimaces. “Not sure about the others.”

Bossuet laughs, but suddenly he frowns. “Wait, Joly said you were a math student.”

Grantaire gives him a blank stare.

“Shit, really?” Bossuet gulps. Grantaire does  _not_  look like a math student. He grimaces. “I didn’t mean it like that,” he says, feeling a little ashamed. “I-”

“Oh no, I agree,” Grantaire says bitterly. “I should not be a math student.”

Bossuet fumbles with his keys, letting his awkwardness make way for genuine confusion. “Why not?” he asks. “I mean, why do you study math then?”

Grantaire lets out an annoyed sigh. “Because ‘I have a gift’,” he says and there is actual resentment in the air quotes his fingers are curling. He pulls a face and shrugs. “So,” he says, spreading his hands. “This is a compromise. I am  _here_  studying math, instead of in my home town studying math.”

“That is a compromise?” Bossuet asks.

“A pretty good one,” Grantaire hums.

Bossuet decides not to ask.

“I’m guessing you were coming to see Joly?” Grantaire says. “Shall I let you in?”

“No need,” Bossuet says and he steps forward to unlock the door.

“You have a key?” Grantaire asks.

“Joly gave me his spare. Don’t tell the administration,” Bossuet winks.

“My lips are sealed,” Grantaire smirks.

.

Grantaire decides to follow Bossuet inside and since his room is next Joly’s he walks with him all the way through the multicoloured corridor.

The door at the end of the row is Joly’s. It’s half-open already and when they approach it, it opens all the way and Joly sticks his head out. “Bossuet!” he chimes happily. “You met Grantaire!”

“I did,” Bossuet agrees, leaning down a little so Joly can hug him.

“He thought I was lost,” Grantaire says. Almost smiling at the way Joly clings to Bossuet’s neck.

“Well, you were staring at the door,” Bossuet points out, letting go of Joly.

“I was reading the stickers,” Grantaire says with a shrug. He had actually stepped outside to clear his head. Living in a house with twelve strangers is not ideal for him. He’s glad to be Joly’s neighbour though.

“Oh you shouldn’t do that,” Joly hums. “We’ve lost people reading our stickers.” He grins. “Hey, Grantaire, Bossuet came over to watch Leverage, want to join?”

“You like Leverage?” Bossuet says eagerly, turning to Grantaire.

Grantaire looks hesitantly at their eager smiles. Are they inviting him to be polite? “I liked the first season…” he says. “But I don’t want to-”

“Come on,” Bossuet coaxes. “I brought corn to pop. Joly makes the best popcorn.”

“I can turn my bed into a pretty good couch,” Joly says cheerfully. “There will be more than enough room!”

“Okay?” Grantaire says. It seems they really mean it and if they do it’s kind of rude to say no, right?

“You two take care of the setup then and I’ll make the popcorn,” Joly decides. He steps out of his room, directing Grantaire and Bossuet inside and disappears to the kitchen, carrying the bag of corn Bossuet hands him in passing.

Grantaire watches him go. Actual corn kernels. Who makes popcorn without a microwave these days? He turns back into the room, to see Bossuet throw the pillows off Joly’s bed and take a big blanket out of the bottom drawer of a cupboard. He clearly knows exactly where everything is.

“You guys are close then,” Grantaire says. It’d be nice to figure out how close, just for context purposes.

“Me an Joly?” Bossuet hums, spreading the blanket out on top of the bed to protect the bedding. “Yeah. We met last year, when I nearly hit him with my bicycle.”

Okay, that poses more questions than it answers but sure. “That sounds like quite the meeting,” he hums. Grantaire waves his hands awkwardly. “Can I do something?”

“There’s more pillows on top of the cupboard,” Bossuet points. “Can you get them down?”

“Dude, you’re at least a head taller than me,” Grantaire grumbles, but he can reach the pillows easily. This is Joly’s place after all and he’s shorter than he is. He pulls on the corner of a pillow sticking out and two more drop down on top of him. “How many pillows does one man need?” he mutters, dumping them on the bed. With the two Bossuet has now put back that makes five.

“If you’re Joly, a great many,” Bossuet grins. “I mean. Blanket forts, man.”

Grantaire snorts and shakes his head. “Yeah, he looks like someone who builds blanket forts.”

Bossuet straightens up and narrows his eyes at him. “That better not mean you don’t build blanket forts,” he says sternly.

Grantaire gives him a strange look. He has never really seen the appeal. It seems like a lot of work. “Eh…”

Bossuet gives him an alarmed look and marches to the door. He sticks his head round the corner. “Joly!” he yells in the general direction of the kitchen. “We’re watching Leverage in a blanket fort.”

“Wait-” Grantaire begins. Is he serious? He can’t be serious.

“Excellent!” Joly calls back.

Bossuet turns back to Grantaire with a face that is nothing short of determined.

“Did I say something wrong?” he Grantaire laughs incredulously.

“No,” Bossuet says. “But you are going to be converted to blanket forts, my friend.”

This is ridiculous. He just met this guy. He only met Joly a few days ago. “You don’t have to-” Grantaire begins, but Bossuet holds up his hands.

“We are building a blanket fort,” he instructs. “Grab that chair.”

Fifteen minutes later Grantaire is sitting in a blanket fort that surrounds Joly’s entire bed. Joly is sitting next to him with an enormous bowl of popcorn on his lap. Bossuet is on his other side and is selecting the first episode of the second season of Leverage on Joly’s laptop, which is perched on a chair in front of the bed.

“Now,” Joly says with mock solemnity. “Complete honestly. What do you think?”

Bossuet looks at him too and Grantaire really can’t help the slight grin on his face. These are probably the most genuinely nice people he’s ever met. There might not be two Joly’s, but Bossuet is close. “Consider me well and truly converted,” he says, with appropriate gravity. “For you…I am willing to believe in blanket forts.”


	2. Bossuet and Enjolras at Law

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written because zeus-is-a-man-whore asked for more Bossuet :)

Bossuet has found that the law faculty mainly excites three emotions in his fellow students: determination, frustration and a sense of numb dread he has yet to find a word for. The obvious first year currently standing in the hallway, glaring daggers a paper in his hand, is clearly wavering between the first two.

“Morning!” Bossuet says companionably. “Having trouble with something?”

The first year looks up and two blue eyes fix on Bossuet’s face with almost painful intensity. “Yes,” he replies simply.

Bossuet nods sympathetically and leans back against the wall. “Since you’re standing in front of the administration office, I’m guessing it has something to do with that? I’m Bossuet by the way.”

“Enjolras,” the other replies, and continues in a tone of barely repressed frustration: “They told me to enrol in classes online. And I did. Except now they tell me  _this_  is what I enrolled in.” He waves the paper. “And it is  _not_.”

“Are the classes you picked on there?” Bossuet asks.

“Some of them are,” Enjolras huffs. “But I am  _certain_  I did not pick fiscal law.”

“Well, I certainly wouldn’t,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “But that’s not what I meant. Are all the classes you  _want_  to be in on there, or are there classes missing?”

Enjolras frowns and looks down at the paper. His lips move soundlessly as his eyes scan the lines. “No, everything is on there…I think,” he says.

“Let me see?” Bossuet requests and Enjolras hands him the list. He quickly looks it over and smiles. Looks like they accidentally enrolled this guy in every single first-year class. “Okay,” he says encouragingly. “This shouldn’t be too hard to fix.” He fishes a pen out of his jacket pocket and hands it to Enjolras, together with the list. “Put a mark in front of the classes you actually want to take,” he says.

“Okay,” Enjolras frowns and he puts an ‘X’ next to a surprisingly large number of subjects.

“Now,” Bossuet says, pushing away from the wall. “Let’s go fix this, shall we?”

“But they just sent me away!” Enjolras says indignantly.

“Oh but it’s Tuesday,” Bossuet says happily. “Charissa works on Tuesdays.”

“Who?” Enjolras says, confuses, but he obediently puts the list in Bossuet’s outstretched hand and follows him into the office of the student administration.

Bossuet puts on his widest smile. “Good morning, Charissa,” he chimes. “Did you miss me?”

“Oh no,” one of the two women behind the counter grimaces kindly. “What happened this time?”

“Nothing at all,” he assures her. “But my friend here-” He grabs Enjolras by the arm and pulls him closer. “-has been a little overzealous with his signing up for classes.” He drops his voice to a stage whisper and adds: “I’m sure he’s very clever, but enrolling in  _every_  first-year class seems a bit ambitious to me.”

Enjolras opens his mouth indignantly, but Bossuet elbows him softly in his side and he shuts his mouth again.

“I see,” Charissa says, glancing at Enjolras from behind her bangs.

“Upon reflection,” Bossuet says, leaning towards her against the counter, “he has wisely decided to limit himself to these subjects.” He puts the list down in front of her.

“That’s still rather ambitious,” she smiles. “But okay.”

“I’m sure I can do it,” Enjolras says, a little stiffly.

“But not all of them,” Bossuet adds helpfully.

“No,” Enjolras says dutifully. “Not all of them.”

“So, in the interest of this young man’s sanity,” Bossuet says. “Charissa, you of the administrative power, please, can you fix it for us?”

Charissa rolls her eyes and turns towards her computer. “Spare me the serenade,” she smiles. “I’ll see what I can do.”

A concerto on the keyboard of her computer later Enjolras has a new class schedule in his hand, this time with the correct subjects.

“There you go,” Charissa says. “And do try to pace yourself, we see too many students burn out first semester.”

“Yes,” Enjolras says, with a somewhat strained look on his face. “Thank you.”

“Charissa you are a marvel!” Bossuet gushes. “Now we shall show our eternal gratitude by getting out of your sight and leaving you be.”

“You know me so well,” she sighs. “See you next time you inexplicably turn into three different people in our grading system.”

“I look forward to it already,” Bossuet smiles and he turns around, herding Enjolras out of the office and back into the hallway.

“Is that how you usually solve administrative mistakes?” Enjolras asks when they’re out of earshot.

“It is now,” Bossuet grins. “I’m in there so often they know me by now.”

“Well…” Enjolras sighs, putting the list away. “Thank you. That was very helpful. And really nice of you.”

“Don’t mention it,” Bossuet smiles. “And welcome to the law faculty…Enjolras, was it?”

“Yes,” he nods and this time he smiles.

“Well,” Bossuet says. “I’ve been here for a while, so if you run into trouble again-” He pats his pockets. “I seem to have lost my pen.”

“Oh!” Enjolras says. “Sorry.” He digs Bossuet’s pen out of the front pocket of his bag and accidentally taking the list of subjects out with it.

Bossuet takes them both and scribbles his phone number on the back of the paper. “Let me know if you ever need a hand again,” he says, handing the list back.

“Thank you,” Enjolras says earnestly. “I will.”

“Good,” Bossuet smiles. “Now, I’m supposed to be at some sort of appointment that I can’t be late to, so I have to go.”

“Oh! I’m sorry?” Enjolras says, sounding worried.

“I’m sure it will be fine,” Bossuet shrugs. “See you around, Enjolras.” He turns away and trots down the hallway towards the offices of the university board. He’s going to be late…and he’s not sure how but he lost his pen again. Oh well.


	3. Dance Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Early in Grantaire and Jehan's friendship and their student years.

“That was a good class!”

Grantaire hums in agreement and holds the door to the locker room open for Jehan. He’s pleasantly tired.

“I like the new time slot,” Jehan says approvingly. “This way I can come here straight after class and still have time for stuff after.”

Grantaire hums again.

“Speaking of which,” Jehan says, pulling their sweaty top over their head. “Do you…” They shut their mouth.

Grantaire raises an eyebrow at them and smiles. Jehan’s personality is an odd mix of passionate impulsivity and sudden shyness, he knows that by now. “Do I what?”

Jehan has turned red, but continues bravely: “I just wondered if you’d like to come over or something?”

Grantaire grins. He and Jehan have been in the same dance class for months. They’ve actually gone out for drinks afterwards too, but they have never properly hung out. Grantaire figured that was because Jehan didn’t feel like it, but it seems he was wrong. “Come over to do what?” he can’t resist asking with a grin.

Jehan turns even redder and huffs defensively. “Have some food? Watch a series? I don’t know.”

Grantaire laughs and Jehan pulls a face at him.

“Stop teasing. I was only asking.” They grumble a little.

“Sorry,” Grantaire grins. “And sure, that sounds a lot better than going home.” He’s still getting used to living alone. He absolutely prefers it over the cramped student housing, but still, his loft apartment is a little too quiet at times. He misses Joly being next door.

Jehan makes a happy sound. “We can go over to yours instead though, if you want,” they say.

Grantaire knows why they’re suggesting that: cramped student housing. “All the same to me,” he shrugs and he starts untying his shoes. “Unless you’re planning something we can’t do at mine.”

“Like what?” Jehan laughs. ” _You_  don’t have roommates.”

Grantaire smirks at them and they turn scarlet again.

“That is not what I meant!” Jehan squeaks.

“I know it isn’t,” Grantaire snorts. “But come on, you’re making this too easy.” He lets out a good-natured laugh. “We can hang out at mine or yours, I don’t mind. I’m just glad you suggested it.”

Jehan’s shyness immediately disappears and they give him a look of earnest affection. “Of course I want to hang out with you,” they say sincerely. “We’re friends.”

“Heh,” Grantaire hums. He doesn’t really know how to respond to that.

Jehan is looking at him rather hard now, the beginning of a frown dawning on their forehead. “Grantaire,” they say with an odd tone of seriousness. “I am going to hug you now.”

“Okay,” he snorts. “Wouldn’t you rather wait until after we’ve showered?”

“No,” Jehan shakes their head and they wrap their arms around him.

Grantaire hugs them back and smiles. He should have just asked Jehan to meet up with him sometime. They gave him their number ages ago.

The door to the locker room opens. A guy carrying a sports bag and sneakers freezes in the doorway. “Oh- Uh…” he stammers and he clears his throat.

“What?” Jehan asks defiantly, turning to look at him without letting go of Grantaire.

“Nothing,” he says hastily and he hurriedly walks past them to the other end of the room.

Jehan rolls their eyes and releases Grantaire from the hug, smiling at him before they continue changing.

Grantaire represses a laugh. He will probably never understand what does and what doesn’t make Jehan shy. They are a joy and a mystery. 


	4. Relaxing

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Feuilly week 2017.

Unless there is something special to finish or a rush job to do Feuilly has the weekends off. Of course “off” means he goes to his friends, or a symposium or volunteering. But today is different. Today is a weekday, it’s way past seven in the morning and he is still in bed. What’s more, he’s staying in bed. No work today.  _Nothing_  today. If he wasn’t so dead tired it would make him nervous.

It’s well past eleven o’clock when Feuilly finally sits up and rubs the sleep from his eyes. He hasn’t slept in like this for  _ages_. With a self-indulgent yawn he grabs his phone from the bedside table and turns the wifi back on. Turning his phone off always made him nervous, but turning off wifi and data he could do. If there was an emergency his friends could call. He has barely put his phone down or there’s a handful of frantic chimes.

“Good morning to you t-” Feuilly trails off and stares at his phone in slight shock.  _17 messages._  For a split second he’s worried, but as soon as the chat pops up he smiles. Yeah, alright, it’s Bahorel.

09:44 Baz : !

09:44 Baz: you’re still asleep? awesome

09:47 Baz: am I banned from your place for your relax day or can I come over later?

10:01 Baz: if I’m not: movie night

10:06 Baz: when did we last watch princess bride

10:07 Baz: I can’t remember that’s too long

10:15 Baz: dude I found your sword!!

10:15 Baz: why did you leave it here???

10:17 Baz: [sword emoji]

10:17 Baz: I’m bringing it

10:18 Baz: mine too

10:18 Baz: [crosses swords]

10:19 Baz: watch PB in style

10:19 Baz: that’s why its here!

10:19 Baz: that was the last time we watched PB

10:19 Baz: we broke a bookshelf

10:20 Baz: good times

Feuilly grins at his phone and sends a message back.

11:36 Feuilly: Always up for princess bride

He gets out of bed, but before he even begun to look for his clothes Bahorel answers.

11:38 Baz: actually slept in

11:38 Baz: I’m so proud

11:38 Baz: and hell yeah PB tonight!

11:39 Feuilly: You stay away from my bookcases

11:30 Baz: if your defence was better I wouldn’t have hit anything

Feuilly snorts. His technique is better than his friend’s and Bahorel knows it.

11:31 Feuilly: You come over round 5 and prove yourself

11:31 Baz: [crossed swords]

With a grin as wide as his face Feuilly tosses his phone aside and gets dressed. It looks like this is really going to be the perfect day off.


	5. The Romantic and the capital R

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by Sybille, who asked for Jehan and Grantaire on an artistic field trip.
> 
> Title based on awkwardbookishgay's post: https://awkwardbookishgay.tumblr.com/post/166547618158/im-disappointed-though-i-dont-claim-to-have-seen

Jehan’s phone lets out a harp strum. They glance at the message while tying off their braid.

**R:**  Rapunzel, Rapunzel

Jehan grins and sends a text back.

**Jehan:**  Be right down!

They grab their keys and run out the door and down the stairs. Outside the student housing building Grantaire is leaning against the hood of a dirty white car that looks like it’s at least forty years old. It also looks like it shouldn’t be on the road.

“That’s your new car?” they laugh. They feel like if they look at it too hard it might fall apart.

“That better be a laugh of extreme admiration,” Grantaire warns. “I’ll have you know that this is a Trabant 601 universal!”

“Since when are you into classic cars?” Jehan giggles, rapping their knuckles on the hood. It makes a weird sound for a car. This thing couldn’t have been built later than the sixties.

“Last Tuesday?” Grantaire says and when Jehan knocks on the hood again he grins: “Bodywork’s made out of plastic. It’s great. Don’t have to worry about dents if you get into an accident, either the plastic will bounce back or the panel will just fall off.”

“That’s reassuring,” Jehan grimaces.

“It’ll be great,” Grantaire says, unconcerned. “When I bought it, it didn’t even run and now it does. I’ll think of a cool name for it, we’ll be buddies.”

“Well it’s nice to meet your new friend,” they laugh and they give the car a pat.

“I’m sure he’s thrilled too,” Grantaire nods. “Now, where're we going again?”

“West side of town,” Jehan says skipping around the barrel of a car to get into the passenger’s side.

“Right, and what is in the west side of town?” Grantaire asks, sliding into the driver’s seat and fiddling with the car door to close it.

“You’ll see when we get there,” Jehan says excitedly. They’ve been dying to show this place to Grantaire, but they refuse to spoil the surprise.

“Okay, I drive better when I don’t know where I’m going anyway,” Grantaire quips and he starts the car. It makes an awful racket.

Jehan has to bite their lip not to laugh, but Grantaire is right, at least it works. They give him the directions in between chatting about their new medieval history subject and Grantaire listens attentively, save the occasional question on when the black death is going to feature in the story.

“Park here somewhere,” Jehan instructs when they turn into a rather boring suburban street with apartment buildings.

“Ok?” Grantaire says questioningly. He parks the car and Jehan jumps out.

“Come on!” they chime, snatching Grantaire’s hand and pulling him along as soon as he steps one foot outside the car. He barely has time to grab his bag.

“Seriously, where are we going?” he asks.

“I thought you liked not knowing where you’re going?” Jehan teases.

“I never know where I’m going,” Grantaire says solemnly. “Which is why knowing where I  _am_  is nice.”

“Well, where we need to go is over that fence,” Jehan points.

Grantaire doesn’t even look surprised, he just follows and silently offers them a boost. He knows Jehan does this sort of stuff and Jehan knows that Grantaire won’t try to scold them for it. With Grantaire’s help scaling the fence is a lot easier than it was last time. Jehan doesn’t have a bag with them today and Grantaire tosses his over before climbing after Jehan. He has a lot more upper body strength.

“And what-” Grantaire begins, but Jehan shushes him and takes his hand again.

They pull him towards the corner of the red-brick building. Except when they walk around it Grantaire sees it isn’t a building. Not anymore. Most of it has crumbled, some of it has actually been demolished. Most of the lot is vacant, but whoever was planning to build here has clearly abandoned the project. Random scraps of what once must have been an impressive building still remain. A stack of rotting beams, grimy bricks, a rusting fire escape… But wherever raw soil was exposed nature has made an effort to take back her former territory. Grass, plants and even small trees are fighting the manmade structures with an explosion of triumphant green. Wildflowers bask in every sunny spot and vines are bravely climbing the fire escape. Whatever the signs on the fence may claim, this is not a building site, this is a forest to be.

Jehan looks at Grantaire’s face and their heart swells. The look in Grantaire’s eyes reflects exactly how they felt discovering this place for the first time.

“It’s perfect,” he mutters.

“I know,” Jehan whispers.

They roam across the lot together without exchanging another word. There’s no need to. After a while Grantaire lets his bag slide off his shoulder and sits down on a mossy flagstone. He pulls out his sketchbook and pastels and begins sketching. Jehan watches him for a while. They like to see Grantaire draw. The colours he uses rarely correspond with the colours around him, but somehow his drawings always end up feeling exactly like what he drew regardless.

Eventually Jehan leaves Grantaire’s side to climb the fire escape. It creaks dangerously, but Jehan doesn’t care. They aren’t heavy and they’re sure the structure will hold. Sitting halfway up the stairs, they survey the clash of industry and earth. Grantaire sits in the midst of it all, with his faded green sweater and washed out jeans, like he belongs on both sides of the conflict.

“In the midst of silent conflict…” Jehan mutters and they hastily take their little notebook out of their pocket. A pen appears from somewhere about their person and they begin scribbling. Jehan can write in a beautiful elegant hand, but when they’re writing poetry the words are only legible to themself. They fill a couple pages, looking up to stare at Grantaire whenever they get stuck. Then they climb down the steps again and begin writing about the poppies nodding in the wind against the red bricks and the brambles trying to swallow the cracked flagstones. They write until there are no words left in their mind and everything goes quiet for a moment. Jehan closes their eyes and let themself fall back into the sweet smelling grass.

“Hey…”

They look up into Grantaire’s face. He’s got smudges of soft pastel of his cheek, chin and nose.

“Done drawing?” Jehan asks.

“Think so,” Grantaire hums and he sits down next to them in the grass.

“Can I see?”

Grantaire flips open his sketchbook and flutters through the pages. Blooming poppies and cracked bricks, old rust and new leaves, joyful saplings and broken pipes. They’re colourful, smudgy sketches and Jehan adores them.

“I like this one,” Grantaire grins, turning a page. It’s the fire escape, wound about by vines, and Jehan sitting perched on one of the steps.

“Oh!” Jehan gasps delightedly. “You drew me while I wrote you!”

“You wrote me?” Grantaire says. “Read it to me!”

Jehan’s notebook is lying beside them in the grass, but they snatch it up protectively. “It’s not a finished piece,” they protest. It needs polishing. Their words are hardly ever perfect right in the moment.

“I showed my work,” Grantaire says with pretended gravity. “You are creating an unequal station between the arts.”

“Okay,” Jehan retorts. “You showed so I’ll show.” They open their notebook to the page with Grantaire’s poem and hold it out to him.

Grantaire squints at their handwriting, trying to make it out.

Jehan laughs. Grantaire should know better than even trying. He’ll recite the poem for him when it’s ready to be recited.

“Oh,” Grantaire says seriously, holding to notebook up in the sunshine. “Very nice.” And he recites dramatically: “I wandered lonely as a cloud…”

Jehan pulls the notebook out of his hand. “If I was going to write Wordsworth I’d write a better one,” they sniff, but they smile at Grantaire’s smirk.

The smudges of red on his cheek look slightly alarming in the curve of his smile though. Jehan pulls the packet of wet wipes that Grantaire uses to clean his smudging fingers out of the side pocket of his bag.

“How do you get this stuff all the way up to your ears?” they smile, wiping the red away.

“Creative process,” Grantaire replies, obediently sitting still while Jehan scrubs the blue off his chin.

“There,” Jehan says.

Grantaire closes one eye and scrunches up his face, looking at his own nose. “You missed a spot,” he points out.

“No I didn’t,” Jehan grins, looking at the smudge of forest green on Grantaire’s nose. “That suits you.”


	6. Typical Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by an anon who asked for a typical conversation between Joly, Bossuet and Grantaire.

“Good morning, R!” Joly chimes, throwing aside the sheets that have to pass for curtains in Grantaire’s loft apartment.

Sunlight comes flooding in and Grantaire responds by groaning and pulling his pillow over his face.

“Come on,” Bossuet laughs, sitting down on the side of the bed. “It’s a lovely morning.”

“Morning,” Grantaire grunts, muffled by the pillow. “Has no damn manners, or it would wait until I’m ready for it.”

Bossuet stretches out on the bed beside Grantaire and affectionately prods him in his side, while Joly is still struggling with the makeshift curtain.

Grantaire rolls onto his stomach and plants his face into the mattress. “…sun…” he mutters. “Comin’ in without permission…just like you…”

“We  _have_  your permission,” Joly says cheerfully, carefully sitting down on the bed on Grantaire’s other side. “And a spare key.”

“Biggest mistake of my life,” Grantaire sighs, but some of the grogginess is already gone from his voice.

Not that this is a guarantee of his waking up, both Bossuet and Joly have seen the miracle that is Grantaire falling back asleep after getting up, brushing his teeth and giving a lecture on Roman politics.

“Joly brought blueberries,” Bossuet says, prodding his friend in the shoulder this time. “So if you don’t get up I might eat them before you can put them in pancakes.”

Not that Joly can’t make blueberry pancakes, Grantaire’s are just better. For someone who usually misses breakfast, he is surprisingly good at making it.

Grantaire turns his head and opens his eyes to look at Bossuet. “Are you trying to bribe me with food I still have to make?” he snorts.

“I’ll help,” Bossuet promises. “And meanwhile Joly can tell you about his date.”

On the other side of the bed Joly makes a happy sound and Grantaire grins and rolls back onto his back so he can look at him. “Bus stop girl?” he asks.

“Her name is Musichetta,” Joly says happily, his normally pale face flushing a little. “She’s amazing…and I think she really likes me.”

“No kidding,” Grantaire grins, dragging himself into a halfway upright position. “Dude, she gave you her number after sitting next to you in the  _bus_.”

“To be fair, Joly talked to her about dinosaurs it’s a very attractive subject for him,” Bossuet remarks with a grin.

“She happens to like dinosaurs,” Joly says triumphantly.

“Course she does,” Grantaire yawns, stretching his arms above his head.

Bossuet grins at Joly, who is still beaming. His friend always said he had no time for dating and with the amount of hours he pours into his studies that’s fair enough, but Bossuet is thrilled about this development. Joly is usually cheerful, but Bossuet hasn’t seen him this giddy in a long time. He can’t wait to meet this girl.

“So,” Grantaire says, running his hand through his hair to get it out of his face. “Someone said something about pancakes?”

Bossuet ends up not helping, because that is best for everyone involved, so Grantaire and Joly make pancakes while he tells Grantaire the story of his latest test.

“So you passed!” Grantaire says, flipping pancakes out of the pan and onto a warm plate

“Well, as soon as they’ve entered my grade into the system I will have,” he grins.

“Why haven’t they?” Grantaire frowns.

“They lost him again,” Joly sighs with a smile.

“ _Again_?” Grantaire groans, turning off the fire and grabbing a handful of cutlery. His place doesn’t really have a dinner table, so eating is usually done wherever. He strolls out of the kitchen in search of an available surface.

“I’m sure it’s just a glitch,” Bossuet laughs and he takes the plate Joly offers him. “They’ll fix it.”

“They better,” Joly says. “You worked so hard. You want coffee R?”

No answer.

“R?”

Bossuet walks out of the kitchen. Grantaire is sitting on the floor besides the coffee table he swears he never bought, his head resting against the side of a couch.

“Did he fall asleep again?” Joly asks.

“Only a little,” Bossuet laughs.


	7. Joly and Jehan at the Zoo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by theblazeofmemory's blog.
> 
> Cw: Mention of animal bones.

Joly shifts nervously from one foot onto the other, glancing around. “Jehan someone will see,” he mutters.

“That’s why you’re keeping a lookout,” Jehan says from their crouched position on the ground. “I’ve almost got it.”

Joly makes an uncomfortable noise. It’s Tuesday afternoon, so the zoo isn’t busy at all, but it’s not deserted either. They glance down at their friend, who is reaching into the Barred Owl exhibit, a pretty feather just out of reach of their grasping fingers.

“Got it!” Jehan cheers triumphantly. They retract their hand and proudly hold the striped wing weather up for Joly to see.

“Great,” Joly says, keeping their voice down. “Now can we go?”

“Yes, yes,” Jehan says, getting back to their feet. “I- Oh!”

“No,” Joly groans. “What now?”

“Look!” Jehan says excitedly, dropping to their already dirty knees again. They point inside the enclosure.

Joly looks. They are pointing at something revolting. “Jehan no,” he horrors.

“Oh, but it’s just the right size!” Jehan insists. “Let me just-” They actually lay down flat on their stomach, shoving their arm underneath the mesh fence all the way up to their shoulder.

“Jehan it’s disgusting,” Joly protests, glancing at what he can only presume is the skull of some type of rodent.

“You’re going to be a doctor!” Jehan snorts, in between noises of frustration.

“That’s different,” Joly says indignantly. There is a cheerful shout not too far away, signalling the approach of children. “Someone’s coming!” he hisses tensely.

“I can almost reach it,” Jehan grunts.

“I am never taking you to the zoo again,” Joly hisses. He doesn’t mean that. Next to Combeferre, Jehan is definitely one of the best people to go to the zoo with.

Jehan makes a sad noise, but doesn’t look up.

“Not without more supervision anyway,” Joly adds.

“Grantaire would have helped me,” Jehan points out.

“Grantaire isn’t supervision,” Joly says decidedly.

“Hah!” Jehan exclaims and they get to their feet just in time. The young father that turns the corner a moment later does give them a strange look for their dirt-covered clothes, but he isn’t really in a position to give a lot of attention to anyone except the two kindergarteners pulling on his hands.

Joly hooks their arm around Jehans and pulls them away from the owls before they can find more things to scavenge.

“Isn’t it sweet?” Jehan says happily, turning the small skull around in their other hand. “It’ll be so nice when I’ve cleaned it.”

“And when you have, you can tell me what you’re going to use it for,” Joly says. He’s fine with skeletons, but he really prefers them in a sterile state and, you know, not stolen from a zoo exhibit.

Jehan beams. “Oh, I’m going to-”

“ _After_  you’ve cleaned it,” Joly says, digging around in their pocket for their bottle of hand sanitizer. “Now  _please_  put it away and wash your hands.”


	8. Javert and Three Amis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on the Dutch police system, because it's the only one I know well enough.  
> (I've always liked Javert.)

There is a polite knock on the door and Javert looks up from his papers. “Enter.”

“Excuse me, Inspector, the witnesses have arrived.”

“Thank you, Abels,” Javert nods at the police officer. “Show the first one in.”

“They are very insistent on being seen together, Sir,” she says.

Javert sighs. That is irregular. “Very well,” he nods. “Send them in.”

“Yes, Sir,” the officer replies and closes the door behind her.

Javert puts his papers aside and pulls up the appropriate file on the computer. All this needless digitalization.

The door opens again and the officer shows in three young men. Two of them look very serious, the third, who looks the oldest, does not.

“Gentlemen,” Javert says. “Do have a seat.” They comply, but he can tell this is not going to be pleasant. The blond-haired one even crosses his arms.

“Mister Enjolras, Combeferre and Grantaire, am I correct?” he asks, looking at all of them by turn.

Enjolras and Combeferre both give him a reserved nod, but Grantare looks him up and down and says with a grin:

“So you’re internal affairs?”

“I am Inspector Javert of the Department of Safety, Integrity and Complaints,” he says stiffly.

“You’re internal affairs,” Grantaire repeats smugly.

“ _R_ ,” the one called Enjolras snaps and Grantaire shuts his mouth.

Javert gives Grantaire an appraising stare and then turns his attention a little more to the other two. “Thank you for coming,” he says a tone that is too neutral to even be properly polite. “I want you to know we take complaints such as yours very seriously.”

Three pairs of eyes look at him with varying levels of incredulity.

“Is there anything you feel the need to tell me,” he asks gravely. “Before we review the testimony you gave earlier?”

“Why are you speaking to us separately?” Enjolras immediately demands to know.

“What do you mean?” Javert enquires.

“Our friends Bahorel and Courfeyrac also filed complaints,” Combeferre says stiffly. “Why have they not been invited?”

“I will only discuss  _your_  case at present,” Javert says calmly.

The blue eyes fixed on him snap with angry sparks. “It is the  _same_ case,” he protests.

“They were victimized, we were witnesses,” Combeferre adds, seemingly cutting in before Enjolras can speak again.

“Yes,” Javert says. “I have read the report.” He looks at the suspicious faces. Even the one called Grantaire looks serious now. “I have spoken to both your friends. Separately. This morning. They were asked not to contact you for obvious reasons.”

“ _Obvious_ -” Enjolras begins indignantly.

“Allegations of racism and discrimination must be handled with  _care_ ,” Javert interrupts. He stares the young man down. “And I  _will_  handle this case with all the care and attention it so sorely deserves, but I do require your cooperation.”

Enjolras gives him a look of fire and determination that is quite startling to see in one so young, but after a moment he nods and sits slightly less tense in his seat.

“So,” Combeferre says calmly. “What do you need from us?”

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Javert says glancing at his computer screen. “You were at a protest…”

He listens gravely while the three students take turns to tell their account of the story. It matches as closely with the versions mister Bahorel and mister Courfeyrac gave him as can be expected of human testimony. It also matches, allowing for differences in interpretation, with the accounts of the other police officers present.

“Was that all?” Javert asks.

“Isn’t it enough?” Enjolras says strongly.

“All you had to tell,” Javert says with emphasis.

Enjolras nods. So does Grantaire.

“I would like to add something,” Combeferre says.

“Yes?” Javert asks, fixing his full attention on him.

“There were many officers there helping people,” Combeferre says. “And as we said two of them intervened when the incident occurred. But we have not managed to get hold of either of their names.”

“No,” Javert says. “If they did not give their names at the time, we do not disclose that information.”

“We were hardly in a position to ask,” Enjolras points out, but Combeferre says in the same restrained tone of voice:

“You do know which two officers I mean then?”

“Yes, I do,” Javert nods. He has spoken to both of them already.

“Then please, thank them for us,” Combeferre says sincerely.

Javert regards him quietly for a moment. “I will,” he says.

“Thank you,” Combeferre nods and he sits back.

“Nothing else?” Javert asks.

He shakes his head.

“Mister Enjolras?”

“I have said all I wanted to say,” Enjolras says stiffly.

“Mister Grantaire?”

Grantaire gives a shake of his head also.

“Right,” Javert hums. “Then let me tell you how the rest of the complaints procedure will be carried out.”

The three young men listen attentively and Enjolras and Combeferre ask several questions. Javert answers them readily and he closes by assuring them they will be contacted by letter, but that they can request to receive an email as well.

“Both, I think,” Enjolras says, glancing at the others.

They nod.

“Noted,” Javert says. “Well then, as far as I am concerned we are done here for now.” He gets to his feet and the three of them follow suit.

Javert shakes each of them by the hand, Enjolras last. “Thank you all for your cooperation,” he says.

The blue eyes look up at him earnestly. “Thank you,” he says.

Javert nods at him, but he does not see the need to be thanked for doing his job. In future he might show his thanks by being a little more restrained and respectful though.

Enjolras and Combeferre move towards the door, but Grantaire glances around the office. “That your family?” he asks, nodding at the picture on Javert’s desk.

“Those are my wife and son, yes,” Javert says stiffly. He must remember to place the picture out of sight next time. The young man called Courfeyrac that he had spoken to this morning had all but demanded to know their names.

“Cute,” Grantaire grins and he follows his friends out the door. “Until next time.”

“Unless you are referring to the completion of this case I sincerely hope there will not be any more incidents,” Javert says seriously. He means. First of all because he and most of the police department have been working very hard to hold their services to a higher standard and second because dealing with unruly students is hardly his favourite pastime.

“Oh, so do I,” Grantaire says airily. “But we tend to run into ‘incidents’ a lot, or some of us do at least.” He flashes Javert a grin. “Anyway, good luck not being internal affairs.”

Javert grimaces as the door of his office slams shut. He has a distinct and not at all pleasant feeling that he will be seeing all of these young men again.


	9. Bahorel's Laughing Mistress

“So what do you think?” Bahorel asks.

Courfeyrac swipes back and forth between the two pictures. Each shows a pair of incredibly loud trousers. “The second one,” he says decidedly. “Definitely.” He bites the inside of his cheek. “But the first one would go really well with your red shoes,” he ponders.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Bahorel grins. “So I bought them both.”

“What did you ask me for then?” Courfeyrac huffs, waving the phone at Bahorel in pretended annoyance. His thumb slips and the next picture slides into view. Courfeyrac stares at it. It’s a selfie of Bahorel and a girl with a ponytail that seems to be trying to bite his ear. Something like that happening is not in itself particularly unusual, but Bahorel keeping a picture like this on his phone  _is_.

“What?” Bahorel asks.

Courfeyrac turns the screen towards him. “Who is that?” he asks, brown eyes fixed on Bahorel with intense suspicion.

A smirk twitches across Bahorel’s face. “Looks like me,” he says.

Courfeyrac narrows his eyes at him. “ _Bahorel_ ,” he says, puffing up with indignation. “Are you seeing someone and  _hiding_ it from us?”

“What do you mean hiding?” Bahorel grins.

Courfeyrac lets out an affronted gasp and scowls at Bahorel’s shit-eating grin. “I don’t believe you.”

With a smirk Bahorel takes back his phone and texts Grantaire: “Do I have a girlfriend?”

“You told Grantaire before  _me_?” Courfeyrac cries, actually offended now.

Bahorel’s phone pings.

**R** : Yeah you fucking do and you’re both banned from my car

Courfeyrac makes a series of noises that kind of remind Bahorel of an offended hen. This is even funnier than he thought it would be. Definitely worth being secretive over. “Still not convinced?” he quips and he sends another message.

**Baz** : ?

**Feuilly** : ?

**Baz** : Do I have a girlfriend?

Instead of an answer Feuilly sends back a picture. Courfeyrac snatched the phone from Bahorel’s hand to look at it. It’s a rather crooked selfie, showing both Feuilly and the mystery girl sprawled out on Bahorel’s couch. It’s definitely the same girl. Same high ponytail, suntanned skin, bright eyes and blonde hair. Except there is a blue streak in it now.

“That’s new,” Bahorel says helpfully. “She won a bet.”

“Don’t you mean lost?” Courfeyrac frowns.

“No,” Bahorel grins.

Courfeyrac looks from the picture to Bahorel and back again. The look on his face is hovering between excited friend and wounded princess. “I wouldn’t have told the others if you wouldn’t have wanted me to,” he grumbles softly after a conflicted silence. “I can keep a secret you know, when I try.”

The grin on Bahorel’s face was already fond, it softens a little more now. He holds out his hand for his phone.

Courfeyrac gives it to him.

“Her name’s Risa,” he says, pulling up another chat.

“Your  _girlfriend_  doesn’t have a name in your phone,” Courfeyrac says disapprovingly, looking at the screen past his hands.

“She named her own contact, don’t look at me,” Bahorel grins and he sends a couple of messages until there is a reply.

**Baz** : ?

**Baz** : Risa

**Baz** : !

**Baz** : Risa

;P <3: No x

**Baz** : Habibi <3

;P <3: No XXX

**Baz** : Courf wants to say hi.

;P <3: Hi courf ^_^

**Baz** : BETRAYAL

;P <3: Courf sounds a lot like baz

Courfeyrac beams at Bahorel, who leans back with a grin and surrenders his phone. Courfeyrac excitedly types back:

**Baz** : Hi! This is Courf!

;P <3: Hi ;) Baz behaving himself?

**Baz** : No, he never told me about you!

;P <3: Scandalous. I know who you are tho ^_^

**Baz** : Well that’s something

Bahorel watches Courf type away and smiles. He didn’t tell Courfeyrac about Risa because he knew it would be funny, but also because he wanted to be sure first. She had met Feuilly pretty much right away, of course, and not telling Grantaire hadn’t been an option, but he had liked keeping this to himself for a while. He hadn’t dated anyone seriously in a long time. Serious wasn’t really his thing. Bahorel could practically hear Feuilly argue with him in his head as soon as he thought that. He  _was_  serious. He was serious about lots of things. He just wanted them to also be fun. Risa was fun.

Beside him Courfeyrac snorts and Bahorel glances at the screen.

Baz: Why are you banned from R’s car?

;P <3: Cause I stole his keys

**Baz** : Why??

**Baz** : Did you take the car?

;P <3: No! We just needed to borrow it for a sec

;P <3: Or 10 minutes

;P <3: R can’t take a joke

;P <3: You know his car has a name

**Baz** : It’s his baby

;P <3: He’s the baby

;P <3: We both kept our clothes on

**Baz** : Omg XD

;P <3: ;P

;P <3: Commercial breaks over

;P <3: Feu says hi!

**Baz** : Hi Feuilly! And bye Risa!

;P <3: Bye courf ^_^

Courfeyrac hands the phone back to Bahorel and he’s pleased to see his friend’s face is it’s usually sunny shade again.

“She sounds fun!” Courfeyrac beams.

“I know,” Bahorel smirks. “That’s why I asked her out.”

“Where’d you meet her?” he asks eagerly.

“Gym,” he replies.

“I knew it!” Courfeyrac grins. “So that’s how Grantaire knows her.”

“Hm,” Bahorel chuckles.

“I’m still hurt though,” Courfeyrac warns. “Hurt and  _appalled_  at your secrecy.”

“Damn,” Bahorel says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m guessing you’re going to be even more upset about the baby then, hm?”

There’s a single heartbeat of shocked silence before Courfeyrac gives him a shove and Bahorel’s laugh rumbles loudly through Courfeyrac’s apartment.

.

By the time Bahorel is allowed to leave, Courfeyrac has managed to drag most of the information there is to give about him and Risa out of him. Bahorel swings by his favourite bakery on his way home, but it’s the only thing he stops for. Home has a lot to offer today.

He smirks when he finds Feuilly and Risa still on the couch when he comes home. They are dozing in front of the TV. Feuilly’s feet are resting on a crate and Risa is sprawled out across the couch with her legs resting across his lap. She’s tall and broad enough to take up nearly all of the couch that way. “Well, you’ve clearly had a productive afternoon,” Bahorel teases.

“The eternal student can shut his face,” Risa informs him. “ _I_ have just had ten hours on a tour bus and Feu-” She gives Feuilly a tap with one of her feet. “-doesn’t have enough down time as it is!”

“Forgiveness,” Bahorel begs with a grin and he holds out the bag of pastries.

“Sugar,” Feuilly smiles drowsily and he makes a grab for the bag.

Bahorel hands it to him and makes eyes at Risa.

She pretends to take some time to make up her mind before she sits up so Bahorel can sit down on the other end of the couch. When he has, she lets her muscles relax again and flops back down, her head landing in his lap.

Bahorel smiles and pushes the blue lock of hair in front of her eyes. She blows at it and pulls a face at him.

“Courf changed the name of the group chat,” Feuilly informs Bahorel.

“To what?” he asks, too lazy to take out his own phone.

“Bahorelisasneak,” Feuilly chuckles.

“That’s fair,” Bahorel grins.

“Does that mean I’m finally going to be introduced?” Risa asks merrily.

“I don’t think you’ll be able to avoid it,” Bahorel chuckles. He makes eye contact with Feuilly, who looks up from where he’s fishing sticky baked goods from the paper bag. “I told Courf he could tell.”

Feuilly smiles approvingly at him. “About time,” he hums.

Risa looks up at Bahorel happily. “Well, my next tour leaves in two weeks,” she reminds him. “Until then I have time to meet  _all_  your friends.”

“Hey now,” Bahorel protests. “You’ve only just come back! The others can wait.”

Risa hums and holds out her hand to Feuilly, who puts a sugar powdered cookie in it. Bahorel nonchalantly stretches his arms out along the back of the couch, but before he can even make a grab for the cookie Risa has caught his wrist with her free hand and is wrestling it down.

“Nice try, thief!” she crows, stuffing the cookie into her mouth. As soon as she’s got both her arms free she pushes herself up and tries to wrap and arm around Bahorel’s neck, but he knows better than to let her put him in a headlock and fights back. It still delights him that he can actually fight back without fear of hurting her. He’s too used to inflicting accidental injuries.

“Nothing much on tv,” Feuilly says, completely unfazed by the small wrestling match taking place partly on his lap.

“There’s never anything on tv,” Risa points out, mouth full of crumbs and sugar. “That’s a given.” She releases Bahorel from her grip and he makes a show of kissing the powdered sugar off her fingers.

“We don’t need tv,” he says wisely. “That’s what treasured box sets are for.”

“Leverage or That’s 70’s Show?” Feuilly asks with a grin.

“Leverage,” Risa says decidedly and she rolls off both their laps and gets to her feet, drawing herself up to her full height.

Bahorel grins up at her. If he had been Grantaire, he would have quoted something about amazons.

“You guys decide which episode,” Risa says cheerfully, walking across the room to fetch the box set. “As long as Elliot’s in it I’m happy.”

“Oh I see how it is,” Bahorel says, trying for his best wounded expression.

“Hey,” Risa grins. “I’m a simple woman. I like my company charming and strong enough to knock out three people in under five seconds.”

She tosses the box set to Feuilly and Bahorel grabs for it as well, scooting over to catch it.

Risa jumps over the back of the couch and sits down on Bahorel’s other side with a bounce. She puts an arm around him. “Oh look, I found one.” She grins at Feuilly. “Or two.”

“Or three,” Bahorel chuckles and he pulls her closer.

Risa laughs and wraps her arms around his neck, in a non-strangely way this time.

Feuilly hides his grin and holds up a disc. “The Stork Job? Or do I need to go for a walk or something?”

Risa laughs again and this time so do Bahorel and Feuilly. Her laugh is infectious.

“Leverage first, walks later.”


	10. Feuilly and Jehan Sleepover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for a prompt by Leo who asked for Feuilly and Jehan having a sleepover.

Feuilly’s place is an odd mixture of tidy and in need of being cleaned. There’s nothing out of place, it always looks cosy and it’s never dirty, but there’s a growing layer of dust on everything that isn’t used regularly. That mostly means the various books and (handcrafted) treasured objects scattered across the shelves that line nearly every inch of the walls. Jehan loves Feuilly’s apartment. More than with most people they think it’s really like walking into a part of Feuilly’s mind. At least this is what Jehan imagines Feuilly’s mind must be like, full of shaved wood, carefully cut leather, folded paper, thumbed paperbacks and a podcast playing in the background.

But right now there’s no podcast playing and it’s too dark to see much of anything except the vague outline of the window, where the streetlights try to shine through the curtains. Jehan is lying on the floor of Feuilly’s bedroom, wrapped in Feuilly’s duvet. This was a compromise. If it had been up to Feuilly Jehan would have taken his bed and he would have slept on the floor. With a smile Jehan snuggles deeper into the covers. They feel a little guilty about staying so late Feuilly wouldn’t let them leave anymore, but not too much. It’s not like they’re keeping him up. They know he has to work tomorrow.

“Jehan?”

Oops. Guess they are keeping him up. “Yeah?” Jehan asks quietly.

“Why aren’t you sleeping?” Feuilly asks. His voice is low, but not groggy. “You’re not cold, are you?”

“How could I be?” Jehan laughs. “Your duvet is huge.”

“Why then?” Feuilly asks and they hear him turn around to look down the side of his bed.

“You’re not asleep either,” they point out.

“No, it always takes a while to get my thoughts to quiet down,” he says. There’s a soft breathing sound Jehan associates with Feuilly grinning. “And your tossing and turning isn’t helping much either.”

“I’m sorry,” Jehan whispers indignantly. “I like to nestle!”

Feuilly laughs softly. “Of course you do.”

“I’ll be quiet,” Jehan smiles. “I know you have to work in the morning.”

“Wasn’t trying to guilt trip you,” he says pleasantly. “Just saying.” He laughs again. “It’s like having a hamster in the room.”

“You used to have hamsters?” Jehan asks curiously.

“One of my younger foster brothers did,” he answers.

“Did you ever have any pets?” they ask. “Or did you share them?”

“We shared,” Feuilly mutters.

“Never wanted one for yourself?” Jehan whispers. They always wanted pets, but one of their moms was allergic for basically everything with hair or feathers.

“Sure I did,” he says. “But I’m not home enough to give a pet proper attention. And I’d rather not have one that has to live in a little cage.”

“You could build them an enormous cage,” Jehan says decidedly. That’s what they would do if they had hamsters, or gerbils, or-

“Still a cage,” Feuilly hums.

“Yes, but-” They’re cut off by the sound of Feuilly’s chuckle and shut their mouth. Yeah, now they’re really keeping them up. “Sorry,” they whisper, pulling the duvet up to their chin. It’s so big they can still have it tucked all the way around their feet. Beside them Feuilly’s bed creaks and they suddenly feel a careful hand pat them on the top of their head.

“Look,” he yawns. “It’s the rare, orange feathered Jehan in nesting season.”

“Pfff,” Jehan snorts, but they close their eyes as Feuilly softly scratches through their hair.

Feuilly keeps going until Jehan has drifted off far enough not to protest when he retracts his hand. They barely register it when he mutters with a smile in his voice:

“Night, nesting Jehan.”


	11. After Midnight

Arriving to an evening hangout after midnight either means everyone is lounging about drowsily or that everyone is just getting fired up. Tonight it seems to be the latter. Grantaire is a little surprised by that, because this is a hangout at Enjolras’ and Combeferre’s place. That’s one of the reasons he’s late, gathering courage and all that. What he finds upon entering their living room isn’t the comfortable, but quiet scene he was expecting though. First of all, Combeferre was singing just now

“No, come on,” he snickers, pulling on Feuilly’s sleeve. “You can do it.”

“Fine, fine,” Feuilly grins. He taps a rhythm with his foot and sings: “Immanuel Kant was a real puissant, who was very rarely stable-”

“Evening,” Bahorel nods at Grantaire, handing him a beer.

“Thanks,” Grantaire says, both to the greeting and the drink. He frowns as Feuilly stumbles over the pronunciation of his words and he and Combeferre both burst out laughing. “Are they drunk?” he asks.

“Feuilly isn’t,” Bahorel says cheerfully. “He can take his alcohol. Not sure about Ferre though.”

“I can’t do this one,” Feuilly grins. “I keep tripping over Wilhelm Friedrich Hegel.”

“Who doesn’t,” Combeferre sighs, letting himself fall back onto the couch and reaching for an almost empty glass of wine.

“I can sing the Rhubarb Tart one,” Feuilly offers with a grin. “I know that one by heart.”

“Yes!” Combeferre lights up. “Yes do!”

“Hold this?” Grantaire mutters, handing his beer back to Bahorel.

“Hm?” Bahorel hums, taking the bottle.

“If Ferre and Feuilly are going to be singing Monty Python all evening I am at least getting some physical proof,” Grantaire said, taking out his phone.

“Oh is that what this is,” Bahorel snickers. “Yeah, fair.”

Grantaire is just in time to film Feuilly attempting to drag Combeferre off the couch and back on his feet, singing in a voice that is remarkably clear considering the repressed laughter:

“The principles of modern philosophy  
Were postulated by Descartes.  
Discarding everything he wasn’t certain of  
He said ‘I think therefore I am a rhubarb tart!”


	12. Let Feuilly Cook

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written in response to a lovely anon that sent me a hug

“Baz, can you not?”

Bahorel is draped across Feuilly’s shoulders from behind, supporting only enough of his weight on his own feet to keep Feuilly from actually stumbling. “Nah,” he hums.

“Seriously, I’m  _cooking_ ,” Feuilly protests.

“I know,” Bahorel says admiringly, shit-eating grin plastered on his face. “Doing a great job too.”

“You could help me instead of, whatever this is,” he suggests, twisting his shoulders under Bahorel’s weight. He is technically strong enough to throw him off, but…

“I am helping,” Bahorel insists, wrapping his arms around Feuilly’s neck instead of letting them dangle. “I’m hugging you while you make food.”

“Urg,” Feuilly mutters, trying to cut the shallots. He glances at the clock. “Well, Risa will be here any minute and then you can hang on her instead.”

Feuilly is half right. Risa does arrive about five minutes later, but Bahorel doesn’t hang on her. Instead she drapes herself across Bahorel’s shoulders without even asking him to move. The combined weight of Bahorel and his girlfriend is considerably harder to support. Dinner is going to take a while. 


	13. Music in the Dark

The last chord of the music dies away and Feuilly hears Jehan make an appreciative sound.

“Not very original, I know,” Grantaire mutters.

“Feelings are always original," Jehan says stoutly and Feuilly hums in agreement.

The three of them are spread around Feuilly’s tiny living room. Since they sat down the sun has set, but no one feels like getting up to turn the lights on, so they’ve just been watching the shadows fill the room.

“What’s your favourite line?” Jehan asks.

“All of it,” Grantaire says.

“R,” Jehan chides fondly.

“ _Touch my world with your fingertips_ ,” he decides after a while, leaning back against the couch.

“Yeah…” Jehan mumbles approvingly. “I like that too.  _Touch my tears with your lips_ ,  _touch my world with your fingertips_.”

Feuilly smiles. Jehan dislikes an orphaned rhyme.

There’s a thoughtful silence and Feuilly considers how few people there are in his life that he can be comfortably silent with this well. He hasn’t even known Jehan and Grantaire for that long.

“What about you, Feuilly?” Jehan breaks the silence, handing him their phone.

“I don’t know,” he says, blinking at the bright screen. “I usually don’t listen to lyrics that much.” As soon as words are set to music he gets lost in the sound of it, instead of paying attention to the meaning and Jehan had asked for songs whose lyrics resonate with them somehow.

“Really?” Jehan hums interestedly.

“Not everything sounds like what it’s saying,” Grantaire muses, pulling on the strings of his hoodie.

“That’s true,” they agree.

Feuilly thinks of the songs he listens to cheer himself up or calm down, but he can’t say he picked any of them specifically for their lyrics.

“There is one,” he says doubtfully. “But it’s in Dutch.”

Jehan sits up with an eager smile. “Can we hear it anyway?”

“All Dutch sounds like singing anyway,” Grantaire grins.

Feuilly scoffs and searches for the right version of the song on Jehan’s phone. “It’s old,” he says. “Like, from 1917. When I first heard it, it made me mad how true it still is.” He puts the phone down and lets the song play.

Jehan listens carefully, but Grantaire is choking down snickers as soon as the singing starts.

Feuilly rolls his eyes at him and he holds up his hands with an apologetic grin.

“What’s it about?” Jehan asks.

“Life,” Feuilly says, struggling to translate it all in his head. “And daring to live it the way you want to. Not following other people’s rules, even though everyone tries to tell you what you can and cannot do.” He got  _really_  worked up about this song as a teenager.

“That  _is_  what it sounds like,” Jehan says with a smile. “Can you translate a bit?”

“I’m trying,” Feuilly grimaces. He closes his eyes. “The last verse is basically:

 _Life is glorious, life if beautiful_  
_But please spread your wings, don’t crawl into a cage_  
_Human, dare to live_  
_Your head held high, your nose in the wind_  
_And don’t give a care what another might think_  
_Keep a heart filled with warmth and love in your chest_  
_But be like a king on the small space that is yours-”_

Feuilly makes a frustrated sound. “It’s much more convincing in Dutch.”

“I like it,” Jehan says. They slant their head. “What is it called in Dutch?”

“Mens, durf te leven,” Feuilly replies.

Grantaire grins. “You sound different in Dutch.”

Feuilly chuckles. “I feel a bit different in Dutch,” he says.

“Does that mean ‘human, dare to live’?” Jehan asks.

“Yes,” Feuilly smiles.

“Say something else,” Grantaire demands, still grinning.

“If you’re going to laugh at my Dutch I’m going to make you speak Portuguese,” Feuilly warns.

Jehan giggles.

“No,” Grantaire groans. “How many times do I have to tell you guys I don’t speak Portugese.”

“You speak it more than we do,” Feuillly grins. “That’s all you need to entertain us.”

“I refuse,” Grantaire sniffs. “You speak – what – four languages?  _You_ entertain.”

“Hey,” Jehan reminds them. “We were doing music in the dark.”

“Was the darkness a requirement?” Feuilly smiles.

“It is now,” they say. “Gimme.” They hold out their hand for their phone. “I’ve got another one I want to show you.”

Feuilly hands them the phone and makes amused eye contact with Grantaire. Jehan has a very eclectic music taste and an endless list of favourite songs. Feuilly doesn’t mind though. He’ll happily do music in the dark for as long as it takes for them to get hungry. Looks like this is going to be his evening. Good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rarely write these three together, but I love them like this. The artistic trio ^_^
> 
> In case you want to listen:  
> R's song is [Queen’s Who Wants To Live Forever](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_TsOPjZEF6E&ab_channel=Fritzes007) and Feuilly's song is [Ramses Shaffy’s Mens Durf Te Leven](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sTmldk0I3t0&ab_channel=Gonneke59)


	14. How Chetta met Joly

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my sister <3

Now, Musichetta considers herself a patient woman. (In her more honest moments she agrees that this technically does not mean she  _is_  a patient woman, but she is at least a great deal more patience than she could be.) The woman she currently has on the phone, however, is testing her patience severely. Musichetta is  _this_  close to having had enough…

Scratch that, she  _has_  had enough.

“Yes, thank you,” she cuts in icily, making the woman indignantly swallow her next sentence. “I am well aware that you don’t answer to me and I would be more than happy to ask Ms. Bois to call you back herself-” That is a bluff. There is no way Musichetta is going to her boss over stupid linens on her first almost-solo event. “-but let me tell you something,” she continues. “This is not about what Ms. Bois wants. Right now, I don’t work for her. Right now I work for Brian Settler. Who so far has been a delightfully laid-back groom and a joy to work with, but who was  _very_  clear he wanted cherry-red linens.  _Not_  orange. The samples you sent were red, what you just delivered is orange. So how do you propose to fix it? Not for me. For the future Mr. Pattel-Settler.”

There is a short silence on the other end of the line and then: “There was a mix-up at the warehouse, I am sure we can find a way to fix it.”

“That would be very much appreciated,” Musichetta says in her most pleasant voice. “I am available at any time if there is anything you need to discuss.”

After securing a promise that she would be kept up to date, she ends the call and lowers her phone with a sigh that is equal parts triumph and frustration. She glances around with an impatient movement of her head. How late is that bus going to be? There is no bus, but there is a young man now also standing at the bus stop. He is looking right at her and unlike most people that get caught staring, he doesn’t look away.

“Can I help you?” Musichetta says, a little coolly.

“Sorry,” he says apologetically and he looks away for a moment. “I’ve just never seen anyone so much.”

He smiles at her and Musichetta feels the annoyance roll inexplicably off her shoulders. She feels a smile pull at the corners of her own mouth. “So much what?” she asks, in a considerably warmer tone.

“Just…much,” he says admiringly. Oh…he’s cute.

She smiles a little wider. His smile is infectious.

“So you’re a wedding planner?” he asks and then he adds with nervous recollection: “I’m Joly, by the way, if that’s- I’m Joly.”

He’s not cute, he’s  _adorable_. “Musichetta,” she replies cheerfully. “And technically I’m an event planner, but yes, mostly weddings.”

“It sounded like a stressful job just now,” Joly says pleasantly and Musichetta is trying to remember the last time someone focussed so much earnest cheerful attention on her without her getting even the slightest feeling of ulterior motives being at play.

“Oh that was nothing,” she grimaces. “Last week I had to convince a couple they couldn’t release chickens instead of doves at the ceremony.”

Joly laughs and dammit if he doesn’t snort adorably too. “Chickens are cool though!” he says. “They’re related to dinosaurs you know.”

“Is that what makes them cool?” Musichetta smiles.

“Well, it certainly makes them cooler,” Joly replies.

Now it is no longer being watched for, the bus arrives. Joly makes a movement like he wants to let Musichetta get on first, but halfway through he changes his mind and quickly steps in himself.

“Afternoon,” Musichetta greets the bus driver. When she turns into the bus, Joly has sat down by the window. There’s an empty spot beside him. Did he hurry in so she could choose whether to sit with him or not? She smiles and gestures at the empty seat. “Can I?” she asks.

“Of course!” Joly beams.

She sits down and wonders what it would take to make him pull that face again. Because she really needs to see that again. “You know anything cool about chickens and dinosaurs?” she asks merrily.

There’s that face again. “I do!” he grins. “Like, when they were making the first Jurassic Park movie, they wanted the dinosaurs’ movements to be as realistic as possible. So they threw Hollywood amounts of money at a team of palaeontologists so they could figure it out. And they made these awesome models based on the bone structure of fossils and when they were done some of them took a step back and went: wait a minute guys…and hurried off to find a chicken.”

“They did not,” Musichetta laughs.

“Well they should have,” Joly laughs back. “Anyway, they found out dinosaurs probably ran like chickens do. Isn’t that just the best.”

Musichetta can only agree.

No bus ride has ever gone by this fast. Joly is a joy to listen to. Musichetta hadn’t even realized she had so much stress bottled up from this morning’s meetings until she starts laughing it away. By the time her stop is almost coming up she is starting to feel seriously conflicted. This guy is…awesome company. It’s like chatting with human sunshine. And he’s so cute it’s almost unfair. Should she give him her number? Judging from the way he looks at her, he might be interested. Then again, it’s not entirely clear if the Bossuet he has mentioned several times now is a roommate or more than a roommate. Still, having this guy as a friend is hardly a worst case scenario.

“I have to get off at the next stop,” she says regretfully.

“Oh!” Joly says and she’s pretty sure there’s a flash of regret on his face too. “Well, it’s been lovely talking to you.”

“Likewise,” Musichetta smiles at him. “And if you’d want to talk to me again…” She quickly opens her purse and takes out one of her cards.

Joly takes it with a startled, but very pleased expression. “Thank you,” he says and yes, he’s actually blushing.

Musichetta gets to her feet and smiles down at him. “Text me any time,” she winks. “Doesn’t even have to be about dinosaurs.”

His blush heightens a little and she  _really_  regrets having to leave now. But she’ll probably regret missing her stop more, or at least she will when Ms. Bois finds out she was late to the flower appointment. So when the bus stops she dutifully gets up. “Bye, Joly!” she says.

“Bye, Musichetta,” he replies happily. “Talk to you soon?”

“You better,” she calls back. The bus driver smirks at her and she shoots him an utterly unapologetic grin.


	15. Study Group

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anon who asked for studying Amis.

“No,” Bahorel says decidedly. He is watching in horror how his friends are piling books and notepads onto the table they are sitting at with their coffees. He pushes his chair back. “I don’t want to.”

Enjolras and Bossuet exchange a significant look. It is remarkable how much Bahorel, who is just shy of two metres tall, can look like a petulant toddler.

“Well, you really have to pass this class,” Enjolras says, clearly struggling with the fact that he needs to convince him of this. (Especially since Bahorel has been at the law faculty for ages. But then again he has been here for ages because he fails classes on purpose, despite having a better grasp of the subjects than some of the teachers.)

“It’s not so bad,” Marius offers smilingly. “We’ll study with you.”

Bahorel lets out an exasperated groan and gives Marius a dramatic look. “That’s the thing about law, Pontmercy,” he says gravely. “It even corrupts friendship.”

“Yes, yes,” Bossuet hums sympathetically. “We all feel your suffering, now come on.”

“I won’t,” Bahorel insists, staring at the law books Enjolras is pushing towards him with genuine disgust. “You can’t make me,”

“Oh I know that,” Enjolras says seriously. It’s not like he hasn’t tried before.

“Which is why we invited Joly,” Bossuet says cheerfully.

“Hi!” Joly chimes from the doorway.

Bahorel spins round in his chair like a man ambushed. “Were you waiting behind the door?” he says, both incredulous and reluctantly impressed.

“Yes,” Joly grins. “But only because Bossuet convinced me to.” He sits down on the chair next to Bahorel and cheerfully begins unpacking his book bag.

Bahorel sighs and Enjolras, Bossuet and Marius grin at each other. When it comes to studying Joly is pretty much a secret weapon. Sitting next to them while they’re at work and  _not_  studying yourself is just unnerving.

“You’re evil,” Bahorel grumbles. That remark seems to be directed at all of them, but Joly (who has by now unpacked a binder, a collection of different coloured post-it notes, several highlighters and a fresh notepad) is the one that responds cheerfully:

“Not evil, devious, there’s a difference. What are you all studying today?”

“Transitional justice,” Enjolras replies, contently pulling a stack of printed articles towards him. “Case study about Rwanda first.”

“Victimology,” Marius says. “Although it seems like they really only focus on the criminal law side, I wish they had theories about victimhood within civil procedures.” He smiles. “But at least some of the theories can be applied to both.”

Enjolras glances interestedly at Marius’ papers while Bossuet waves some of his handwritten notes around and says: “Fiscal law again. They lost my test results. I remember most of it though, so this won’t be too hard.”

“And I have neurochemistry to review,” Joly hums. He looks at Bahorel and smiles. “And you?”

Bahorel looks round the table and then back at Joly’s determined smile. He sighs. “Employment contracts,” he mutters resentfully.

“That sounds dull,” Joly says sympathetically. “If you need us to ask questions to practise you’ll tell us, right?”

“Sure,” Bahorel sighs.

“You want to borrow a pen and highlighter?” Joly asks. “I brought spares.”

“Yes,” Bahorel sulks, holding out his hand.

Enjolras looks up from his phone, smiling. “Ferre is coming over as well, straight after class. He’s bringing R.”

“Well, then I at least won’t be the only one not studying,” Bahorel tries one more time. “Because I’m  _not doing it.”_

“Oh if he went to one of Ferre’s lectures that probably means he skipped his own again, which means he’ll have math to do,” Joly says with a grin.

“And Joly’s the primary reason Grantaire hasn’t failed yet,” Bossuet grins. “Well, that and his creepy talent with numbers, of course.”

“Who do you think I practiced this routine on the past couple of years,” Joly winks. “Come on, Baz, get reading. I brought snacks as a reward for after half an hour.”

Bahorel scowls at him and bows over his books. “Devious,” he mutters and he gets to work.


	16. J/b/m & a sulking Grantaire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by badassindistress' blog.

“Stop slouching.”

“Urgh.”

“You’ll love it when it’s done.”

Musichetta plucks a few pins from her pincushion and adjusts the shirt she has made Grantaire put on inside-out. Joly and Bossuet are watching from their slightly tangled up position on the couch with great amusement.

“This is the last time I come here after shopping,” Grantaire complains.

“Oh shush,” Musichetta chides him. “It’ll only take a moment and it’ll make a world of difference. Now stand up straight.”

He sighs and straightens his shoulders. Musichetta was impossible to argue with.

“You have an unusual figure,” she hums, expertly pinning up the excess fabric of his shirt. “But you buy everything so big that it fits your shoulders completely hides your waist.”

“Which I’ve been trying to tell him for years,” Joly points out.

“I don’t have a waist,” Grantaire argues.

“You will when I’m done taking this in,” Musichetta says. “Be nice to me and I might do the same for your other dress shirts.”

“I don’t have any other dress shirts,” he grumbles. “And I just remembered why.”

“Yes you do,” Bossuet says. “They’re at the back of your closet. You never wear them, cause you don’t think they suit you.”

Grantaire levels him with a look of utter betrayal.

“That’s right!” Joly says, eyes lighting up. “Oh Chetta he has a dark green shirt with black buttons, you have to do that one.”

“We’ll do that one next then,” Musichetta grins, tapping Grantaire’s arms.

“What do you mean  _we_?” Grantaire huffs, lifting his arms. “And no we will not.”

“Not like you’ll be able to stop me,” she smirks, smoothing a wrinkle in the fabric. “I have a key to your place.”

“Joly and Bossuet have a key to my place,” Grantaire glares.

“Same difference,” she scoffs. “Right, you can take it off now.

Still grumbling Grantaire unbuttons the inside out shirt and carefully takes it off.

“You didn’t even get caught in the pins,” Bossuet says cheerfully. “I usually do.”

“Not as often as you step on my pincushion,” Musichetta sighs, wincing at the most recent memory and Joly grimaces too.

“It’s fine,” Bossuet says dismissively. “I have thick soles.”

Grantaire lets out a great, laboured sigh and picks up his t-shirt from where he dropped it on the couch.

“Not yet,” Musichetta says, quickly basting the seams she just pinned.

“Joly, I have changed my mind,” Grantaire says severely. “Bring her back to the bus stop where you found her.”

“Technically I found him,” Muschietta says, fastening off her thread.

“No,” Joly smiles. “I saw you before you saw me.”

Her own smile softens. “That is true.” She turns the basted shirt right side out and holds it out for Grantaire. “Try it,” she says. “If it doesn’t look at least fifty percent better than it did before I promise never to touch your clothes again.”

“Witnesses!” Grantaire says, pointing intensely towards Joly and Bossuet.

They nod dutifully and watch how Grantaire puts on and buttons his new shirt. Musichetta makes a triumphant noise in the back of her throat, but says nothing. He turns around and glances at himself in the mirror. There’s a short silence.

“Okay,” Grantaire admits. “That looks great.”

“Do you have a waist?” Musichetta demands smugly.

“Apparently I do,” he admits, frowning at his reflection.

“Damn right,” she nods. “And killer shoulders.”

“Which I’ve been trying to tell him  _for years_ ,” Joly repeats strongly.

Grantaire glances from him to Bossuet and then back at Musichetta. “You guys are going to dig through my entire wardrobe, aren’t you?” he sighs.

They grin in unison.


	17. Painting Nails

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Débora, who asked for Jehan convincing Grantaire to let them paint his nails.

It’s early in the afternoon and Grantaire is playing his guitar while Jehan lies upside down on his sofa. Their long hair is streaming past the faded cushions and pools on the floorboards below. Their eyes are fixed intently on his right hand, plucking the strings.

Grantaire smiles. “You’re going to set me or my guitar on fire if you keep staring like that.”

“Stop accusing me of malignant witchcraft,” Jehan hums, but there are still tracking the movements of Grantaire’s fingers.

“I never accuse you of witchcraft,” Grantaire contradicts. “I accuse you of being a supernatural being that is staring at my fingers hard enough to make them spontaneously combust.”

“Your hands are pretty,” Jehan says matter-of-factly.

Grantaire smirks and says nothing. Arguments with Jehan on the subject of beauty are reserved for moments of high energy, this is a lazy moment.

“Your fingers move so fast…” Jehan muses.

Again, Grantaire doesn’t argue. This is a very gentle melody, not fast at all. But then again, Jehan has a tendency to focus on very different matters than the obvious, so perhaps they do not mean the literal speed at which his fingers pluck the notes from the strings.

“It’s pretty,” they repeat. Suddenly, in a supple, dance-like movement they swing themself into an upright position, hair sweeping through the air. They turn to face Grantaire with glittering eyes. “Let me paint your nails!”

“What?” Grantaire laughs. He has stopped playing in surprise. “No.”

“Yes!” Jehan chimes, bouncing on the sofa on their knees. “Your fingers move so beautifully in the light, it would be even prettier if they glittered!”

“Glitter,” Grantaire says with a grimace. “You’ve been hanging out with Courf too much.”

“Come on,” Jehan begs. “I’ve got silver nail polish in my bag. Silver goes with everything.”

Another Grimace. Arguments with Jehan over use of colour aren’t something Grantaire can control, they just happen. “Silver might,” he says (it doesn’t of course). “But glitter certainly doesn’t.”

Jehan rises from the sofa and grabs Grantaire’s right hand. It looks large and rough in theirs. “ _Please_ ,” they beg.

Grantaire frowns at their large hazel eyes. “What did I say about using your supernatural abilities,” he scolds. “Stop it with the eyes.”

Jehan pulls their lips into a pout and Grantaire drops his guitar and covers his eyes with both his hands.

“Arg! No! Mercy!” he croaks. “It burns!”

Jehan laughs and they rescue his guitar from falling on the ground. His friends always treat it with much more deference than he does. “Come on,” they try again, pulling on his arm. “Let me paint your nails. Just this once.”

“Fine,” Grantaire sighs.

Jehan makes a delighted sound and darts to the corner of the room where they’ve left their bag. They dig out a small bottle of glittery silver nail polish. “Hand please,” they say happily, sitting down on the floor in front of Grantaire.

Obediently he holds out his hand. “You know,” he says while Jehan gleefully starts on his pinkie. “I feel for the person that ends up marrying you.”

“What makes you think I’d get married,” Jehan grins.

“You’re the sort of person that gets married,” Grantaire says decidedly.

“Yeah I am,” Jehan says happily.

“Plus, your moms will be heartbroken if you don’t,” Grantaire reminds them. It would be too cruel for the child of a florist and a caterer to deprive them of the biggest party they’ll ever be allowed to throw.

“Also true,” they agree. They are making steady progress with his nails and take a moment to grin up at him. “I’ll just have to find someone that likes nail polish then.”

“You’ll have to find someone that doesn’t mind being emotionally manipulated into letting you do random stuff,” Grantaire snarks, but his tone of voice is far too fond for Jehan to take him seriously.

“Other hand please,” Jehan requests smugly.

Grantaire gives them his other hand and moves the fingers of his right experimentally.

“Careful, it’s not dry yet,” Jehan warns.

“I know.” He lets his nails catch the light. They glitter. That is kind of pretty.

By the time Jehan is finished with both his hand Grantaire agrees that it’s a great idea. As soon as his nails are dry he lets Jehan film a close up of his hands playing the fastest piece he knows and snapchat it to all their friends with the caption “ART”, but only on the condition that they wail mournfully in the background. The responses are thoroughly confused (except for Bahorel’s, who just sends back: nice), which prompts them to send three more, with increasingly loud wailing from Jehan.

Grantaire’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out to see a text from Bossuet.

 **B the Bald Eagle** : What the hell is going on?

 **Grantaire** : Hanging out with Jehan x

 **B the Bald Eagle** : You two should not be left alone together

“Bossuet is criticizing our friendship,” Grantaire grins.

“How rude,” Jehan grins back. “Tell you what, you paint my nails next and we’ll send him close up pictures of it until he begs us to stop.”

Grantaire lets out a heartfelt sigh. “That really is the only reasonable thing to do at this point,” he nods.

They proceed as planned. Grantaire makes a terrible mess of Jehan’s nails and the fact that Jehan keeps shaking with laughter doesn’t help. After the fifth picture Bossuet begins copy pasting the law article for harassment in the chat and Grantaire has to put the nail polish away before either of them spills it all over the floor. His stomach aches from laughing.

“Jehan,” Grantarie says seriously once he’s caught enough breath to speak.

“Yeah?” they snort, trying to keep their still drying nails from touching anything.

“I bless the day you and your fuzzy rainbow legwarmers walked into my dance class,” he says with solemn exaggeration. “I really, really do.”


	18. Late For Class

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by actualplanetpluto's blog.

Éponine really isn’t prone to worrying. If she ever was that’s been thoroughly knocked out of her. But this is  _Cosette_. Cosette who is never late for anything. Certainly not for class.

The door to the classroom opens and a flurry of patterned pastels darts in. “Sorry I’m late!” Cosette says, slightly out of breath.

“I’d say don’t let it happen again, but it’s never happened before,” their pedagogy teacher says, slightly startled by her abrupt entrance. “Are you alright? Did something happen?”

“No, ma’am,” Cosette says. “And it won’t happen again. I mean, I won’t be late again.”

“Alright then, take your seat,” the teacher nods. “Do try to come in a little more quietly next time.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she says and quickly walks down the row of desks to where Éponine has kept her usual seat.

Éponine drags Cosette’s chair back for her with her feet and Cosette flashes her a smile. She’s kind of red in the face. Something definitely happened. The teacher resumes her lecture and under the pretence of showing Cosette where they are in the book, Éponine mutters:

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Cosette whispers, but she is holding her hands in her lap under the desk.

One glance and Éponine can tell something’s off about the way one of her hands is clasping the other. A second glance and she feels her cheeks burn. Cosette’s hand looks red.

“What the-” she begins in a hiss, but Cosette shakes her head and Éponine swallows her angry demand for an explanation.

Cosette turns towards her, looks her straight into her face and beams.

Relaxing slightly, Éponine gives her a confused smile back. Well, at least whatever happened didn’t distress her. The entire lecture on childhood development goes right past Éponine. Impatiently she waits for the scheduled part of the lesson where they have to work individually or in pairs. As soon as the teacher sits down at her desk and the other students start talking, Éponine leans towards Cosette and says urgently:

“Well?”

Cosette looks at her with wide, delighted eyes and her cheeks grow red again. “I slapped someone,” she whispers. “He was being a jerk and he wouldn’t leave me alone, and…” She looks so proud.

Éponine looks at her hand (it’s less red by now) and then back up at her delighted face. “Did you mean to just slap him?” she asks. If Cosette needs pointers on how to punch someone, she’d be more than happy to oblige.

“I don’t know,” Cosette says, barely keeping her voice down. “I didn’t really think about it. It just happened. He deserved it.”

“Must have,” Éponine mutters and she grins. Cosette look  _so_  proud. “Did you hurt your hand?”

“Yeah,” she says honestly. “But I don’t care.”

“Let me see?” Éponine hums.

Cosette dutifully holds out her had for Éponine to inspect it.

“Where’s your ring?” she asks. Cosette always wears a ring her mother gave her.

“In my wallet,” she mutters. “That really did hurt afterwards.”

“Next time,” Éponine says quietly. “Either take it off to protect yourself or turn the stone inwards to do some real damage.”

Cosette just manages to mute her laugh.

Éponine lets go of her hand and they both bend over their books, grinning and smiling way too wide.

“Don’t tell anyone, okay?” Cosette whispers. “I don’t want Papa to find out.”

“What about your mum?” Éponine asks. Cosette’s parents are an interesting set. Kind of the opposite of her own. Great parents and not a couple in any traditional sense of the word.

Cosette gives her a sideways glance with twinkling eyes. “Oh,  _she_ won’t mind.”


	19. J/B/M Fluff

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for an anon who asked for Chetta and Joly cheering up Bossuet.

“What’s next, chef?” Musichetta teases, pushing the cutting board with minced mushrooms in Joly’s direction. Whenever they cook he is definitely in charge and rightfully so. Musichetta hates to admit it but cooking has just never been her forte and Bossuet should not be allowed near knives or boiling water.

“Chili pepper,” Joly grins. “Take the pips out before you chop them though.”

“Can do,” she hums giving his side a squeeze as she moves past him towards the fridge.

Joly makes an appreciative sound that still has a bit of a yelp in it, he’s ridiculously ticklish.

Just when Musichetta turns around with the package of chili peppers she hears the front door open. She smiles.

“We’re in the kitchen, Bos!” Joly chimes happily. “It’s dinner omelette today.”

“Nice.”

Musichetta and Joly look at each other. That was a very short answer and more importantly, it didn’t sound like the mouth that gave it was smiling. Joly leaves his plate of herbs and Musichetta puts down the peppers. Bossuet hasn’t even taken his coat off yet when they’re both bearing down on him.

“Did something happen?” Joly asks, looking into Bossuet’s face before he wraps his arms around his waist.

Musichetta follows suit, only she can properly reach around his shoulders so she does.

“I’m fine,” Bossuet grins weakly, standing still with his coat still on because he doesn’t really have a choice right now.

He doesn’t sound too convincing, so Musichetta leans her head against his for a moment before pressing a kiss on his cheek. “Sure?” she asks.

“Yeah,” he says, trying to free his arms so he can hug them both back. “I am now at least.” This time the cheer in his voice sounds a little more natural.

Musichetta glances down at Joly. His expertise on Bossuet still trumps hers after all. He looks a little doubtful, but he does release Bossuet from the hug. At least long enough for him to take off his coat.

“Am I allowed in the kitchen today?” Bossuet grins, throwing his coat on the couch.

“You are  _always_  allowed in the kitchen,” Joly protests.

“Just not when you’re deep-frying,” Musichetta reminds him.

“Not when I’m deep-frying,” Joly agrees, taking Bossuet’s hand.

He and Musichetta return to their chopping stations and Bossuet sits on the tattered wooden chair by the door, watching them work. He looks fine now, but Musichetta isn’t quite ready to let this go. After Joly has told them about his latest adventures at the hospital and made Bossuet laugh a couple of times, she crosses the kitchen to take a seat on his lap and asks:

“So, what happened?”

She knows she has to work on not forcing people to share, but comfort must be given and she has to be sure he’s alright. It’s a side effect of being loved by her. One that Joly and Bossuet have come to expect and cherish, so even though Bossuet gives her a dismissive smile at first he still answers:

“Nothing much, kind of messed up a presentation by breaking a projector. I wouldn’t mind, but it was a group project.”

Musichetta hums fondly. That’s just like him. Whatever bad happens to himself he brushes off without a second thought, but if  _other_ people are involved…

“Were they upset with you?” Joly frowns and Musichetta makes room so he can sit on Bossuet’s other knee.

“Nah,” Bossuet shakes his head. “I just felt bad. It took a lot for Dani to get over her nerves and then I mess it up for her.”

Joly makes a sympathetic noise and wraps his arms around Bossuet’s neck. The chair really isn’t big or comfortable enough to sit like this, but none of them want to move now.

“Not that she minded,” Bossuet laughs suddenly. “She said it was nice to not be the reason things go wrong for once.”

Musichetta swallows her laugh, but Joly doesn’t.

“See,” he says. “You make people feel better even if you think you’re making them feel bad.”

Bossuet grins and nudges against the side of Joly’s face to ask for a kiss. He gets one and Musichetta presses one on the back of his head. Bossuet hums happily and turns his head for the same again only the other way round, but just before his lips meet Musichetta’s there’s a groan of creaking wood.

“Up!” Bossuet cries and he jumps to his feet, dragging both his better thirds up with him.

They stumble against him, each being steadied by one of his arms as the old chair gives out and the back legs and back tear away from the seat with a crack.

“That’s a stroke of luck,” Bossuet laughs elatedly. “Just in time.”

He’s still clutching both Joly and Musichetta close and they both let out a startled laugh.

“Our hero,” Musichetta laughs and she gives him the kiss he was still owed.

“Poor chair,” Joly sighs. “But it died nobly.”

“Under our combined weight,” Musichetta snorts.

“In the cause of comfort and cuddles,” Joly corrects her.

“I shall write a worthy eulogy while you finish dinner,” Bossuet declares, his characteristic wide smile back on his face.

“Chetta can help you,” Joly says with a grin while he walks to the stove. “Not much left to finish.”

“No, no,” Musichetta shakes her head. “I will let the master of lamentations work his magic. I’m available to wail mournfully in the background though.”

After the first verse of the epitaph, Joly’s phone buzzes. It’s a message from their next-door neighbour and it reads simply: “?”

Joly hands Musichetta his phone and she sends back: “Funeral for a beloved chair.”

They have a deal with the next door neighbour. He doesn’t mind their noise, but he can’t stand not knowing what the noise is about. So whenever he’s curious he sends a question mark and they tell him what’s going on. It’s a good deal, the three of them always feel extra validated in their noisy cheerfulness when they get a message.

“I was beginning to worry,” Joly snickers. “That was  _definitely_ question mark worthy.”

“And I’m only getting started,” Bossuet grins.


	20. Joly Enjoys the Little Things

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for Dee <3

Joly makes lists. Both when he’s happy and when he’s anxious. Lists to keep track of things. Lists to remind him of things. People say ‘count your blessings’, but Joly would rather list them. Because that means you actually get to talk about them, instead of just giving a number.

Joly shakes the pan he’s popping popcorn in and smiles. Popcorn is a thing worth listing. So is this new pan that’s actually big enough. He looks down at his stripy socks. Those too, they are his favourites. (He has at least six favourite pairs but that doesn’t matter.) The fridge is hanging full of things to list. One of Grantaire’s pastel drawings. A gorgeous piece of calligraphy by Jehan that reads “F*ck Off”, with a lovely flower blooming in the middle of the first word. A flyer for Enjolras’ last event. An old envelope with a shopping list that Bossuet has scribbled happy dragonflies on.

The popping inside the pan has stopped and Joly takes it off the fire. They divide the popcorn over two bowls, one for sweet and one for salted. He likes both. Balancing the two bowls, he pushes he walks backwards out of the kitchen, pushing the door open with his shoulders. The living room is cosy and full of lovely things to list, but Joly only gives that half a second’s thought. Because Musichetta and Bossuet are lounging on the couch debating about movie choices and they are on the top of every list.

“Delivery,” he chimes and he hands Bossuet the sweet bowl and Musichetta the salted one.

They immediately scoot over to make room for him in between them. Okay,  _that_  goes on the top of the list.


	21. Dinner Party

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Written for my sister <3

It’s 5 PM and even though the dinner party isn’t until eight Bahorel’s kitchen is full of people. It’s Jehan’s dinner party, not Bahorel’s. But since Jehan lives in student housing they are hosting at Bahorel’s, because he has an entire house to himself. (It’s still not entirely clear to his friends how that happened though). The reason the kitchen is full of people is because Jehan wanted to make it a Proper Dinner and recruited Feuilly, Courfeyrac, Cosette and Bahorel to help cook. But then Marius came with Cosette and Combeferre came with Courfeyrac and Enjolras came with Combeferre and Grantaire showed up too and now almost two thirds of the guests are already present.

“It’s not as much fun this way,” Jehan sighs while cutting vegetables. “Now the food isn’t going to be a surprise.”

“We’d sit somewhere else,” Grantaire grins. “But it’s hardly our fault Bahorel doesn’t have a living room.”

“This is the living room,” Bahorel corrects, handing Courfeyrac a bunch of rosemary.

Technically that was true. The kitchen was enormous, but only because it used to be a rather small kitchen and a reasonably sized living room. At some point Bahorel had decided he wanted a bigger kitchen and had knocked out the wall. That was all his friends knew about it. One week there was a wall, the next there wasn’t.

“We’ll be impressed by the food either way,” Combeferre says. “Seeing something’s creation doesn’t make it any less impressive.”

Jehan smiles appreciatively at that.

“Or we could just not pay attention,” Grantaire grins. “I’m sure I can find something interesting to focus on.” He drapes himself across Enjolras’ lap and gazes up into his eyes. “Yup,” he says. “I have totally forgotten what food even is.”

Enjolras pulls a face, but keeps looking down at him and Grantaire gasps: “So that’s where the blue of the sky went! I’m going to report you to the p-”

He is cut off by Enjolras resting the book he’s still holding on his face.

Jehan groans. “Montparnasse is just going to leave, isn’t he?” they sigh. “Éponine promised to get him through the door, but he’s just going to climb out of a window or something.”

There is a round of snickers and Enjolras opens his mouth to reply, but Grantaire says with mock indignation: “ _Jehan_ , are you asking me to change who I am for the approval of  _others_?”

Jehan spins around again, looking genuinely hurt. “I would never-” Then they see Grantaire’s grin and turn away with a grumble.

Enjolras nudges Grantaire, who reluctantly sits up. “We know tonight is important for you, Jehan,” Enjolras says seriously. “And we’ll keep the PDA to a minimum.”

“Unnaceptable!” Grantaire cries, throwing back his head and Courfeyrac nearly drops an entire onion in the quiche mix Feuilly is making.

“Jeez!” he starts.

Enjolras rolls his eyes. “R, would you calm down for a-”

“My affections will not be  _tamed_!” Grantaire shouts and he lunges at Enjolras, hugging him so tight round the waist that Enjolras falls flat on his back on the couch.

“Well, that backfired,” Cosette observes casually.

Enjolras is half-heartedly trying to fight Grantaire, but he is a lot stronger, even if he’s half a head shorter.

Bahorel chuckles over his pot of tajine. “Maybe if you’ll let them get it out of their system now they won’t be so bad later,” he suggests.

“When has that ever worked?” Jehan sighs.

“Never,” Bahorel shrugs. “But there’s a first time for everything.”

“I promise,” Grantaire says, emerging victorious with Enjolras firmly in his arms. “That as soon as Montparnasse walks through that door my behaviour shall be strictly PG13.”

“That-” Enjolras says, slightly out of breath. “-is a really depressing promise to make, because it would give you a much wider range of acceptable actions if I were a woman.”

“Damn…” Grantaire grins. “You may have found the one and only loophole to make my bisexual ass regret that you’re not a girl.”

“Whatever,” Jehan laughs. “I’ll just tie Parnasse to his chair or something.”

“As long as you’re careful,” Bahorel grins. “You know they have special tape for that sort of thing right?”

Jehan blinks and then turns bright red. “Not like that!” they squeak.

Bahorel laughs so loud Feuilly makes ‘dial it back’ motions at him and he almost does, but then Marius suddenly chokes on thin air because he just caught on and Bahorel drops his spoon with laughter. Courfeyrac pats Jehan’s arm affectionately while Cosette waits for Marious to make eye contact with her and winks. Marius’ face is now  _exactly_ as red as his hair.


	22. What Baking Can Do

“Well, the table is all set. How’s it going in here?” Musichetta asks, leaning in the doorway to her own kitchen.

“Still whisking,” Cosette grimaces. Musichetta does not have an electric whisk, this possibility had not occurred to Cosette.

“Still peeling potatoes,” Éponine says, standing over the sink.

Musichetta laughs. “This wasn’t my idea, you know. I don’t even know why we’re doing this.”

Cosette opens her mouth to reply, but Éponine says airily:

“We’re doing this because I want lemon merengue and offering to cook dinner was the easiest way to trick Cosette into making one.”

“Good point,” Musichetta nods and Cosette lets out a huffing laugh.

“I don’t ever have to be tricked into making lemon merengue,” she says. She switches the whisking bowl to her other arm and grimaces again. “On second thought…”

“Give me that,” Musichetta laughs. “Whisking egg whites I can manage.”

Cosette gratefully hands her the bowl and shakes her arms and shoulders to loosen them up before starting on zesting the lemons. “This is fun, though,” she says. “We’ve never hung out just the three of us.”

That is true and they had all thought it was high time that changed. Musichetta had gracefully volunteered her place on account of her being the only one of the three that had an apartment of her own. Well, mostly her own anyway.

Musichetta is about to ask Cosette how much whisking exactly is necessary, when she sees Éponine fumbling with her phone to get a picture of the partially peeled potatoes. “What are you doing?” she frowns.

Cosette turns around to see and laughs.

“Sending a picture to Montparnasse,” Éponine hums. “He hates peeling potatoes.”

“So much that the mere sight of them offends him?” Musichetta asks, crooking and eyebrow.

“It’s really not that hard to offend Montparnasse,” Éponine confides.

Cosette snorts softly and pours her lemon mixture in the pie dish. That means she has her hands free now and Musichetta says:

“Cosette, honey, if have to keep this up for a while I’m going to need music.”

“They should be nearly done,” Cosette grins. “But music’s good either way.” She pulls out her phone. “Waitress or Hairspray?”

“Either,” Éponine mutters, smirking at the message that pops up on her phone.

“Hairspray,” Musichetta says.

Half a beat later ‘Big, Blonde and Beautiful’ is blasting through the kitchen as loudly as the speakers of Cosette’s phone can manage.

“That’s better,” Musichetta nods, swaying her hips to the rhythm while whisking. “Oh and say when, chef.”

“Nearly done,” Cosette says cheerfully.

“You  _just_ said that,” Musichetta reminds her.

“ _Lemon merengue_ ,” Éponine says pointedly. “It’s worth it.”

“Next time I’ll bring my mixer,” Cosette promises with a laugh.

“Next time we’re going out to dinner,” Musichetta says decidedly.

“Student,” Éponine says. “Broke.”

“Correction,” Musichetta smirks. “I’m taking you out to dinner.”

Éponine gives her a frowning glance, but Musichetta is having none of that.

“You better not be about to say anything containing the word ‘charity’,” she warns. “What good is it having a job if I don’t get to treat my friends. Anyway. You’re making me dinner. I owe you.”

“Going out sounds lovely,” Cosette says and, glancing into the bowl again: “Yeah, those are perfect. Thanks, Chetta.” In the same breath she turns around to scold Éponine, who has stuck her fingers into the other mixing bowl. “Ponine there’s raw egg in there!”

“Meh,” Éponine shrugs, grinning at Cosette as she licks the lemon cream off her fingers.

“She always does this,” Cosette complains to Musichetta.

“Does she now,” Musichetta hums. She glances at the poorly repressed smile on Éponine’s face and carefully turns away to hide her own smile. Clearly, it really was long overdue she spent some quality time with these girls. She has never noticed this before… 


	23. Cheering up Bahorel

When Feuilly enters his apartment, the first thing he sees is Risa’s heels underneath the coat rack, besides Bahorel’s loafers. His initial pleasant surprise at them both being here gives way to a slightly more concerned wonder when he hears how quiet it is. Bahorel and Risa are many things, but they are neither calm nor quiet.

He walks into the small living room and is greeted immediately by a relieve smile from Risa, who looks up from where she’s sitting on the corner of his couch, with Bahorel sprawled out across the rest of it with his face buried in her lap.

“Feu’s here,” she says, tugging on Bahorel’s long curls.

Bahorel grunts and without lifting his head holds out a demanding arm until Feuilly walks within reach of him. As soon as he is, Bahorel wraps the arm around Feuilly’s legs and pulls him close without a word.

“Hey Risa,” Feuilly smiles, wobbling slightly as he leans forward to kiss her cheek.

She hums affectionately while she kisses him back and then mouths an exaggerated: “ _Help me_ ,” glancing down at Bahorel with a nervous expression that is only _partly_ play-acted for comical effect. Feuilly can sympathize. High-spirited Bahorel in a low mood is a distressing thing and Risa hasn’t had his years of experience and practice.

Feuilly smiles and turns out of Bahorel’s embrace. His friend mutters resentfully, but Feuilly grabs hold of his arm and pulls. Bahorel makes himself even heavier.

“Come on,” Feuilly orders. “I want to sit.”

Begrudgingly Bahorel turns onto his back, revealing a face that is mostly uncombed beard and messy curls. He pulls his legs up so Feuilly can sit.

“Hi, there,” Risa hums, looking down at Bahorel’s face.

Feuilly does the same, crossing his arms to lean on Bahorel’s knees. “What happened?” he asks.

Bahorel makes a suffering sound, gives Feuilly a single, pained look, and closes his eyes.

“His mom called,” Risa answers.

Another suffering groan.

Feuilly hums. He might have guessed.

Risa gives him a conflicted look. “I tried snogging him,” she says. “But that didn’t help.”

“No,” Bahorel contradicts, eyes still closed. “It definitely helped.”

Risa laughs at that, but she still gives Feuilly another entreating look. Feuilly smiles reassuringly at her.

“How was she,” he asks casually.

“Fine,” Bahorel sighs.

“Family?”

“Plentiful.”

“Father?”

Bahorel smiles faintly and opens his eyes. “Mama wanted to redecorate the living room. Baba brought her home a new tea set instead.”

Feuilly laughs. Risa looks between them curiously. Bahorel doesn’t talk about home too often.

“How many does she have now?” Feuilly asks fondly.

“Oh I don’t know,” Bahorel grins. “But Amina broke one of the blue glasses the other month, so I guess it was only a matter of time.” He looks up at Feuilly and his smile turns to a grimace. “ _Why_ -” he begins emphatically. “-would the university put the schedule for the exam weeks on the public part of the website? _Why_?”

Feuilly winces sympathetically. “Is that why she called?”

Bahorel makes a garbled noise and slings an arm over his face.

Feuilly squeezes Bahorel’s knees. There’s only one thing Bahorel hates more than studying law (apart from the myriad of things genuinely wrong with the world of course) and that is disappointing his parents.

“I know you hate it,” Risa says uncertainly. “But you already passed your first exam…”

“I know,” Bahorel groans. “What if I actually graduate soon?”

“No danger of that, I think,” Feuilly hums comfortingly. Or at least, comforting to Bahorel.

Risa gives him a bemused look and Feuilly shakes his head fondly at her.

“If only I knew what the hell I _do_ want to do,” Bahorel sighs, voice muffled by the fabric of his sleeve.

Feuilly hums. Bahorel’s parents are desperate for him to make something of himself, but they only sent him here to study law because that seemed like a good thing to study for their quick-witted son with his wild ideas and directionless interests.

“I’m going to be a _lawyer_ ,” Bahorel drawls, throwing his arms up in a sudden fit of dramatics. “And even if I’m not I’ll be a _law_ -school dropout.” He sighs and looks up at Risa. “I wouldn’t mind,” he mutters. “But I’m wasting my parents’ time…”

“Hey now,” Risa says, leaning towards him as far as she can go in the position. “You’re studying. And you’re studying what _they_ asked you to.”

“And education is never wasted,” Feuilly says warmly. “Never.”

Bahorel looks at him, half-fond, half-accusing. “Not on you, perhaps.”

Feuilly grins. The volume of Bahorel’s voice is rising already. “Aibtahaj, sadiq,” he says, poking Bahorel in his stomach.

Bahorel’s face lights up. “Shit, man, that’s really good!” he says excitedly. “Have you been practicing without me?”

“Maybe,” Feuilly hums with a smile.

“You’re slurring your syllables still though,” Bahorel says, sitting up. “Say it again.”

“I’ve just come home from work!” Feuilly protests with mock indignation. “I haven’t even had anything to eat!”

“Which is why I’ve ordered food,” Risa says.

Bahorel and Feuilly both look at her in surprise. “Look,” she says, grinning at Feuilly. “I’m fine with breaking into your house for comfort reasons, but I wasn’t going to also raid your fridge. And you-” She pokes Bahorel’s shoulder. “-were moping. I can’t deal with moping on an empty stomach. There’s Greek on the way.”

“I love you,” Bahorel beams, wrapping his arms around her in a crushing hug coupled with a kiss. “ _And_ you,” he adds, dragging Feuilly against him as well with one arm. “And I was not moping.”

“Weren’t you,” Feuilly laughs, lowering his head against Bahorel’s shoulder in an attempt to save his neck from getting pulled into a crook.

“No,” Bahorel says. “I was having a brief period of suffering.”

“Can I get the legal definition of _brief_?” Feuilly hears Risa ask on the other side of Bahorel’s embrace.

There’s an offended gasp in reply and Feuilly grins. See. All’s well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Aibtahaj, sadiq” means “cheer up, friend” in Arabic (if I got it right).
> 
> My Bahorel is Moroccan and I would like to give my heartfelt thanks to my friend and her Moroccan partner who have been very patient with me and my silly questions.


	24. Antidotes to Stress

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some healthy, nutricious Jehan & R friendship~

Exam weeks are hell for everybody, but usually Grantaire keeps in touch. At least to send text about how he’s going to move to the top of a mountain somewhere where math can’t touch him. This week has been worryingly quiet though and since Bossuet and Joly are still staggering under the weight of fiscal law and molecular biology respectively, it’s Jehan that is knocking on Grantaire’s door. There’s no answer. Jehan calls again. They let the phone ring. Joly did offer to give them  his key, maybe they should have taken him up on that. But that would be intrusive.

The again… They call again. The clock on the other end of the line actually startles them.

“Jehan?” Grantaire sounds groggy, sleepy.

“Shit, did I wake you?” Jehan blurts out.

“What?” Grantaire mumbles. “Wh- Wait are you outside?”

“Um, yes?” Jehan says apologetically.

“Shit- Sorry, be right there.”

Jehan lowers their phone and smiles when the door opens and a very frumpled looking Grantaire appears. His hair is a mess, he’s wearing a cardigan on pyjama bottoms and he looks absolutely exhausted.

“I should have let you sleep,” Jehan winces and they step inside to hug him.

Grantaire closes his arms around them, letting go of the door and leans on them for a moment. There’s a strange weight to him and Jehan glances at his face when he pulls away. Grantaire smiles through his grimace.

“I brought juice,” Jehan says, swallowing the usual ‘how are you?’ and ‘how were the tests?’.

Grantaire’s expression softens. “You are an actual angel.”

Jehan hums affectionately and shows themself to the kitchen while Grantaire mutters something about clothes and disappears into his bedroom. When he comes back he’s not exactly dressed, but certainly more dressed than he was.

Jehan hands him a glass. “Orange and grapefruit,” they say.

“Bless your existence,” Grantaire sighs.

Two glasses of juice and some comfortable silence later Grantaire looks a lot more human and a good deal less tired.

“We going dancing again on Friday?” Jehan asks. They both neglect their classes when it’s exam season, but not moving always seems to take a bigger toll on Grantaire.

He nods eagerly.

“I’m sure I’ve forgotten half the steps,” Jehan winces.

“ _Jehan Prouvaire_ ,” Grantaire gasps, mimicking their swing teacher’s voice. “You are _wasting_ your talent.”

Jehan giggles. “If I do not practice more I shall never become a true proficient!” they lament loudly.

Grantaire gets to his feet with a grin, catching Jehan by their hand and pulling them up off the couch as well. “No time to lose then!” he says, grabbing their other hand as well.

There is a genuine shine to his eyes again and Jehan laughs happily. They’re glad they came over to see him. But then again, they always are.


End file.
